WILDWOODWAYS 


WINTHROP  PACKARD 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


WILDWOOD  WAYS 


The  muskrats  have  built  higher  than  common 
this  year 


WILDWOOD  WAYS 


BY 

WINTHROP   PACKARD 

AUTHOR  OF  "WILD  PASTURES" 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,   1909 
BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 

( INCORPORATED  ) 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 


THE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,    U.S.A. 


THE  author  wishes  to  express  his  thanks  to 
the  "Boston  Transcript"  for  permission  to  re- 
print in  this  volume  matter  which  was  originally 
contributed  to  its  columns. 


M35Q020 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SNUGGING-DOWN  DAYS ^   i 

CERTAIN  WHITE-FACED  HORNETS    .    .  23 

THIN  ICE 45 

WINTER  FERN-HUNTING 65 

THE  BARE  HILLS  IN  MIDWINTER      .    .  87 

SOME  JANUARY  BIRDS 107 

WHEN  THE  SNOW  CAME 129 

THE  MINK'S  HUNTING  GROUND    .    .    .  151 

IN  THE  WHITE  WOODS 169 

THE  ROAD  TO  MUDDY  POND    .    .     .    .  191 

AMONG  THE  MUSKRAT  LODGES     .    .    .  215 

THICK  ICE 235 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  muskrats  have  built  higher  than  common  this 

year Frontispiece 

OPPOSITE    PAGE 

Their  paper  fort  .  .  .  had  by  September  grown  to 
the  dimensions  of  a  water-bucket  and  contained 
a  prodigious  swarm  of  valiant  fighters  ....  34 

There  are  other  feathered  folk  who  seem  to  delight 

in  the  cold 118 

Here  in  a  little  tangle  of  tiny  undergrowth  and 
brown  leaves,  with  a  fallen  trunk  for  overhead 
shelter,  you  might  find  him  any  forenoon  .  .  .  132 

You  may  .  .  .  get  a  glimpse  of  the  weasel-like  head 
of  one  lifted  above  the  bank  as  he  sniffs  the 
breeze  for  game  and  enemies 160 

He  lifted  his  head  high,  fluffed  out  those  glossy 

black  neck  feathers  and  strutted 179 

He  was  in  and  out  again  in  a  jiffy 182 


SNUGGING-DOWN  DAYS 


SNUGGING-DOWN  DAYS 

1  O-DAY  came  with  a  flashing  sun 
that  looked  through  crystal-clear  atmos- 
phere into  the  eyes  of  a  keen  northwest 
wind  that  had  dried  up  all  of  Novem- 
ber's fog  and  left  no  trace  of  moisture 
to  hold  its  keenness  and  touch  you  with 
its  chill.  It  was  one  of  those  days  when 
the  cart  road  from  the  north  side  to  the 
south  side  of  a  pine  wood  leads  you  from 
early  December  straight  to  early  May. 
On  the  one  side  is  a  nipping  and  eager 
air;  on  the  other  sunny  softness  and  a 
smell  of  spring.  It  is  more  than  that 
difference  of  a  hundred  miles  in  latitude 
which  market  gardeners  say  exists  be- 
tween the  north  and  south  side  of  a 
board  fence.  It  is  like  having  thousand 
3 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

league  boots  and  passing  from  Labra- 
dor to  Louisiana  at  a  stride. 

On  the  north  side  of  a  strip  of  wood- 
land which  borders  the  boggy  outlet  to 
Ponkapoag  Pond  lies  a  great  mowing 
field,  and  here  among  the  sere  stubble  I 
stand  in  the  pale  shadow  of  deciduous 
trees  and  face  the  wind  coming  over  the 
rolling  uplands  as  it  might  come  across 
Arctic  barrens,  singing  down  upon  the 
northerly  outposts  of  the  timber  line. 
On  the  south  side  the  muskrat  teepees 
rise  from  blue  water  at  the  bog  edge 
like  peaks  of  Teneriffe  from  the  sunny 
seas  that  border  the  Canary  Isles.  Such 
contrasts  you  may  find  on  many  an  early 
December  day,  when  walking  in  the  rare- 
fied brightness  of  the  open  air  is  like 
moving  about  in  the  heart  of  a  diamond. 

Yet  even  the  big  mowing  field  shows 
unmistakable  signs  of  having  been 
4 


SNUGGING-DOWN    DAYS 

snugged  down  for  the  winter.  Here 
and  there  a  tree,  still  afloat  in  its  brown 
undulating  ocean,  seems  to  be  scudding 
for  the  shelter  of  the  forest  under  bare 
poles,  while  the  stout  white  oaks  lie 
to  near  the  coast  under  double-reefed 
courses,  the  brown  leaf-sails  still  hold- 
ing to  the  lower  yards  while  all  the  spars 
above  have  been  blown  bare.  The  wood- 
chuck  paths,  that  not  long  ago  led  from 
one  clover  patch  to  another  and  then  on 
to  well-hidden  holes,  lie  pale  and  untrav- 
elled,  while  their  fat  owners  are  snugged 
down  below  in  warm  burrows  with  their 
noses  folded  in  under  their  forepaws. 
Tradition  has  it  that  they  will  wake  in  a 
warm  spell  in  midwinter  and  peer  out  of 
their  burrows  to  see  what  the  prospect 
of  spring  may  be.  Hence,  the  second  of 
February  is  not  only  Candlemas  day,  but 
ground-hog  day  in  rural  tradition,  the 
5 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

day  on  which  the  woodchuck  is  fabled  to 
appear  at  the  mouth  of  his  underground 
retreat  and  look  for  weather  signs,  but 
I  don't  know  anyone  who  has  ever  seen 
him  do  it.  You  may  often  find  skunk 
tracks  in  the  snow  or  mud  during  a 
good  midwinter  thaw,  but  I  have  never 
seen  those  of  the  woodchuck  then,  and 
I  am  quite  confident  that  he  stays 
snugged  down  the  winter  through. 

Scattered  here  and  there  about  the 
borders  of  the  field  are  groups  of  dwarf 
goldenrod  still  in  full  leaf  and  flower,  so 
far  as  form  goes.  The  crowded  termi- 
nal panicles  of  bloom  bend  gracefully 
towards  earth  like  stout  ostrich  plumes, 
and  I  think  they  are  more  beautiful  in 
the  feathery  russet  of  crowded  seed- 
masses  than  they  were  in  their  Septem- 
ber finery  of  golden  yellow.  Their  stems 
are  lined  with  leaves  still,  but  these  have 
6 


SNUGGING-DOWN    DAYS 

lost  their  sombre  green  to  put  on  the 
color  of  deep  seal  brown.  It  is  as  if 
they  had  donned  their  sealskin  cloaks  for 
winter  wear. 

But  all  these  clumps  are  doubly  pro- 
tected in  another  way,  not  for  their  own 
sake,  for  they  are  but  dead  stems,  but  for 
the  birds,  who  will  need  their  seeds  when 
the  snows  later  in  the  month  shall  have 
covered  the  ground  far  out  of  their 
reach.  All  the  autumn  the  winds  have 
been  whirling  dry  leaves  back  and  forth, 
and  each  clump  has  trapped  them  cun- 
ningly till  the  slender  stems  that  might 
otherwise  be  buried  and  broken  by  the 
snow  are  reenforced  on  all  sides  by  elas- 
tic leaves  that  will  hold  them  bravely 
up.  Here  is  an  open  larder,  a  free-lunch 
counter  for  the  goldfinches  and  chicka- 
dees of  next  January.  Here  they  may 
glean  and  glean  again,  for  except  they 
7 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

be  plucked  by  eager  beaks  some  of  these 
seeds  will  not  let  go  their  grip  on  the 
receptacles  till  spring  rains  loosen  them 
and  the  ground  is  fit  for  their  sowing. 

Everywhere  in  wood  and  pasture  the 
numbers  of  seeds  of  plants  and  trees 
that  are  thus  held  waiting  the  winter 
gleaners  are  incomputable;  nor  will 
these  need  to  seek  them  on  the  plant  it- 
self, for  little  by  little  as  the  winter 
winds  come  and  go  they  will  loose  their 
hold  and  scatter  themselves  about  as  we 
scatter  crumbs  for  the  snow-birds  and 
sparrows.  Here  are  the  birches,  for  in- 
stance, holding  fast  still  to  their  wealth. 
If  bursting  spring  buds  could  be  gray- 
brown  in  color  instead  of  sage-green  we 
well  might  think  the  trees  had  another 
almanac  than  our  own  and  that  with 
them  it  .was  late  April,  for  wherever  the 
trees  are  silhouetted  against  the  light  we 
8 


SNUGGING-DOWN    DAYS 

see  every  twig  decorated  with  new  life. 
It  is  new  life,  indeed,  but  not  that  of 
spring  leaves.  Every  tree  has  a  thou- 
sand cones,  and  every  cone  is  packed 
with  tiny  seeds  about  a  central  core  of 
stiff  fibre  that  is  like  a  fine  wire. 

Holding  the  seeds  tight  in  their  places 
are  little  flat  scales,  having  an  outline  like 
that  of  a  conventionalized  fleur-de-lis  or 
somewhat  like  tiny  flying  birds.  The 
whole  is  so  keyed  by  the  tip  that  as  they 
hang  head  down  it  is  possible  to  dis- 
lodge only  the  topmost  scales  and  seeds. 
A  very  vigorous  shake  of  the  tree  sends 
a  cloud  of  these  flying,  but  when  you 
look  at  the  tree  you  find  that  not  a  thou- 
sandth part  of  its  store  has  been  dis- 
pensed. When  the  midwinter  snows  lie 
deep  all  about,  the  paymaster  wind  will 
requisition  these  stores  as  needed  for  the 
tiny  creatures  of  the  wood  and  scatter 
9 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

them  wide  on  the  white  surface,  till  it 
will  look  as  if  spiced  by  the  confectioner, 
so  well  does  the  forest  take  care  of  its 
own.  The  Lady  Amina  of  the  Arabian 
tale  picking  single  grains  of  rice  at  the 
banquet  might  not  seem  to  dine  more 
daintily.  The  spring  will  be  near  at 
hand  when  the  last  of  these  birch  seeds 
will  have  been  dispensed.  Thus  innumer- 
able graneries  are  stored  the  woodland 
and  pasture  through,  so  lightly  locked 
that  all  may  pilfer,  and  so  abundantly 
filled,  pressed  down  and  running  over 
that  there  shall  be  no  lack  in  either  quan- 
tity or  variety. 

Far  other  and  stranger  forms  of 
winter-guarding  forethought  are  to  be 
seen  all  about  the  big  mowing  field  and 
in  the  coppices  that  divide  it  from  the 
open  marsh  and  the  pond  shore,  if  we 
will  but  look  for  them.  In  many  places 
10 


SNUGGING-DOWN    DAYS 

has  witchery  been  at  work  as  well  as 
forethought,  and  strange  and  unaccount- 
able things  have  been  brought  to  pass 
that  tiny  creatures  may  be  kept  safe 
until  spring.  Here  and  there  among  the 
goldenrod  stems  you  find  one  that  is 
swollen  to  the  size  of  a  hickory  nut,  a 
smooth  globe  which  is  merely  the  stem 
expanded  from  the  diameter  of  a  tooth- 
pick to  three-quarters  of  an  inch.  When 
I  split  this  bulb  with  my  knife  I  find  it 
made  up  of  tough  pith  shot  through  with 
the  growing  fibres  of  the  plant,  but  hav- 
ing a  tiny  hollow  in  the  centre. 

Here,  snugly  ensconced  and  safe  from 
all  the  cold  and  storms,  is  a  lazy  creature 
so  fat  that  he  looks  like  a  globular  ball 
of  white  wax.  Only  when  I  poke  him 
does  he  squirm,  and  I  can  see  his  mouth 
move  in  protest.  His  fairy  language  is 
too  fine  for  my  ear,  tuned  to  the  rough 
n 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

accents  of  the  great  world,  but  if  I  am 
any  judge  of  countenances  he  is  saying: 
"  Why,  damme,  sir !  how  dare  you  intrude 
on  my  privacy !  " 

After  all  he  has  a  right  to  be  indig- 
nant, for  I  have  not  only  wrecked  his 
winter  home,  but  turned  him  out,  un- 
clothed and  unprotected,  to  die  in  the  first 
nip  of  the  shrewish  wind.  Unmolested 
he  wrould  have  leisurely  enlarged  his  pith 
hall  by  eating  away  its  substance  and  in 
the  spring  have  bored  himself  a  cunning 
hole  whence  he  might  emerge,  spread 
tiny  wings  and  enjoy  the  sunshine  and 
soft  air  of  summer.  His  own  transfor- 
mations from  egg  to  grub,  from  grub  to 
gall-fly,  are  curious  enough ;  yet  stranger 
yet  and  far  more  savoring  of  magic  is 
the  growth  of  his  winter  home.  By 
what  hocus-pocus  trie  mother  that  laid 
him  there  made  the  slender  stem  of  the 
12 


SNUGGING-DOWN    DAYS 

goldenrod  grow  about  him  this  luxurious 
home,  is  known  only  to  herself  and  her 
kindred,  and  until  I  learn  to  hear  and 
translate  the  language  which  the  grub 
used  in  swearing  at  me  when  I  broke 
into  his  home,  it  is  probable  that  I  shall 
still  remain  ignorant. 

But  let  us  leave  Labrador  and  let  our- 
selves loose  upon  Louisiana,  for  we  may 
do  it  in  five  minutes.  The  oaks  and  the 
pines,  the  maples,  the  birches  and  the 
shrubs  of  the  close-set  thickets  which 
guard  the  bog  edge,  I  know  not  what 
straining  and  restraining  power  they 
have  upon  this  keen  wind,  but  when  it 
has  filtered  through  them  it  has  lost  its 
shrewishness  and,  meeting  the  warm  em- 
brace of  the  low  hung  sun,  bears  aromas 
of  spring.  It  is  as  if  wood  violets  had 
shot  his  garments  full  of  tiny  odors  of 
April  as  he  traversed  the  wood,  or  per- 
13 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

haps  the  perpetual  magic  of  life  which 
seems  to  well  up  from  swampy  woodland 
had  seized  upon  him  as  it  seizes  upon  all 
that  passes  and  made  him  the  bearer  of 
its  potency.  Across  the  bog  to  the  pond 
outlet,  through  this  spring-soft  atmo- 
sphere lies  a  slender  road,  lined  with 
thickets,  where  I  do  not  wonder  the  Callo- 
samia  promethia,  the  spice-bush  silk- 
moth,  likes  to  spin  his  own  winter  snug- 
gery and  dangle  in  the  soft  air  till  the 
real  spring  taps  at  his  silken  doorway 
and  soft  rains  lift  the  latch  and  let  him 
out. 

Not  far  away,  among  the  leaves  that 
lie  ankle  deep  among  the  shrubbery  that 
skirts  the  hickories  and  oaks,  are  the 
cocoons  of  Actias  luna;  among  them, 
shed  from  the  oaks,  are  those  of  Telia 
Polyphemus,  and  if  I  seek,  it  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  find  the  big  pouch  where  Samia 
14 


SNUGGING-DOWN    DAYS 

cecropia  waits  for  the  same  call.  Some 
May  evening  there  shall  be  a  brave 
awakening  in  the  glades  and  on  the  bor- 
ders of  the  bog.  It  shall  be  as  if  the 
tans  and  pinky  purples  and  rose  and 
yellow  of  the  finest  autumn  leaves  took 
wing  again  in  the  spring  twilight  and 
floated  about  at  will  owing  nothing  to 
the  winds,  and  then  the  luna  moth,  the 
fairy  queen  of  dusk,  all  clad  in  daintiest 
green  trimmed  with  ermine  and  seal  and 
ostrich  plumes,  shall  come  among  them 
and  reign  by  right  of  such  beauty  as  the 
night  rarely  sees,  all  this  sprung  from 
the  papery  cocoons  swung  in  the  road- 
side bushes  or  tumbled  neglectfully 
among  the.  shifting  autumn  leaves  in  the 
tangle  at  the  roots  of  the  wild  smilax. 

Here  is  magic  for  you,  indeed,  of  the 
kind  that  the  parlor  magician  is  wont  to 
supply;  frail  and  beautiful  things  grown 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

at  a  breath,  almost,  from  obscure  and 
trivial  sources.  Yet  I  seem  to  find  a 
more  potent  if  less  spectacular  witchery 
in  what  has  been  done  to  the  willows  that 
here  and  there  grow  in  the  thicket  that 
borders  the  slender  bog  road.  Some 
winged  sprite  has  touched  their  branch 
tips  with  fairy  wand  and  whispered  a 
potent  word  to  them,  and  the  willows 
have  obeyed  and  grown  cones!  These 
are  an  inch  or  more  in  length  and  as  per- 
fect with  scales  as  those  of  the  pines  up 
in  the  wood.  But  there  are  no  seeds  of 
willow  life  in  them.  Instead  there  is  at 
the  core  an  orange-yellow,  minute  grub, 
the  larva  of  a  fly  that  stung  the  willow 
tip  last  spring  and,  stinging  .it,  laid  her 
egg  therein. 

That   the   egg  should  become  a   grub 
and  that  later  the  grub  in  turn  should 
become  .a  fly  is  nothing  in  the  way  of 
16 


SNUGGING-DOWN   DAYS 

magic,  or  that  it  should  fatten  in  the 
meanwhile  on  willow  fibre.  The  necro- 
mancy comes  in  the  fact  that  every  willow 
tip  that  is  made  the  home  of  this  grub 
should  thenceforth  forsake  all  its  recog- 
nized methods  of  growth  and  produce  a 
cone  for  the  harboring  of  the  grub  during 
the  winter's  cold.  There  are  many  vari- 
eties of  these  gall-producing  insects.  The 
oaks  still  hold  spherical  attachments  to 
their  leaves,  produced  in  the  same  way. 
Look  among  your  small  fruits  and  you 
will  find  the  blackberry  stems  swollen  and 
tuberculous  from  a  similar  cause,  and 
full  of  squirming  life.  It  is  all  necro- 
mancy out  of  the  same  book,  the  book  of 
the  witchery  of  insects  that  makes  human 
life  and  growth  seem  absurdly  simple  by 
comparison.  The  snugging  down  of  the 
open  world  in  preparation  for  winter  is 
full  of  such  tales,  and  he  who  runs 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

through  the  wood  on  such  a  day  in  De- 
cember may  read  them. 

Standing  in  the  spring-like  warmth  at 
the  pond  outlet  and  looking  down  the  line 
where  bog  meets  water  I  can  count  the 
dark  peaks  of  the  muskrat  teepees,  reced- 
ing like  a  coast  range  toward  the  other 
shore.  The  muskrats  have  built  higher 
than  common  this  year,  because,  I  fancy, 
they  expect  'much  water,  having  had  it 
low  all  summer  and  fall.  Some  of  them 
are  half  as  high  as  I  am  and  must  have 
cost  tremendous  labor  in  tearing  out  the 
marsh  roots  and  sods  and  collecting 
them  thus  in  pyramidal  form.  Their 
roads  run  hither  and  yon  across  the  bog 
and  are  so  well  travelled  that  the  travel- 
lers must  be  numerous  as  well  as  active. 
They  have  laid  in  a  store  of  lily  roots 
and  sweet-flag  for  the  winter,  and  their 
underwater  entrances  lead  upward  to 
18 


SNUGGING-DOWN    DAYS 

quarters  that  are  dry  and  snug.  Here 
they  are  as  secure  from  frost  as  was  the 
white  grub  that  I  hewed  from  his  pith 
hall  in  the  goldenrod  stem.  When  the  ice 
is  thick  all  about,  their  house  will  be  as 
hard  of  outside  wall  as  if  built  of  black 
adamant  yet  their  water-entrance  will 
be  free,  beneath  the  ice,  and  they  will 
go  to  and  fro  by  it,  seeking  supplies  or 
perhaps  making  friendly  calls. 

All  the  morning  the  marsh  grass  bil- 
lowed and  the  water  sparkled,  one  to  an- 
other, about  their  houses,  and  if  you  lis- 
tened to  the  grass  you  might  hear  its 
fine  little  sibilant  song,  a  soft  susurrus  of 
words  whose  only  consonant  is  s,  set  to 
a  sleepy  swing.  It  is  a  song  that  seems 
to  harmonize  with  the  fine  tan  tones  of 
the  bog  as  they  fade  into  silvery  white 
where  the  sun  reflects  from  smooth 
spears.  Over  on  the  distant  hillside  the 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

pines,  navy  blue  under  cloud  shadows, 
hummed  in  the  wind  like  bassoons;  dis- 
tant and  muted  cornets  sang  clear  in  the 
maples,  and  all  about  the  feathery  heads 
of  the  olive  swamp  cedars  you  caught 
the  faint  shrilling  of  fifes  if  you  would 
but  listen  intently.  Now  and  then  the 
glocken-spiel  tinkled  in  mellow  yellow 
notes  among  the  dry  reeds  on  the  marge, 
but  these  echoed  but  familiar  runes.  The 
tan-white  bog  grass  that  is  so  wild  it 
never  heard  the  swish  of  scythe,  sang, 
soft  and  sibilant,  an  elfin  song  of  the 
lonely  and  untamed. 

With  the  singing  of  the  wind  into  the 
tender  spring  of  the  south  side  the  day 
grew  cold  with  clouds.  The  sky  was  no 
longer  softly  blue,  but  gray  and  chilling, 
the  pond  lost  its  sparkle  and  grew  purple 
and  numb  with  cold,  and  all  among  the 
bare  limbs  you  heard  the  song  of  the 
20 


SNUGGING-DOWN    DAYS 

promise  of  snow.  But  the  clouds  stopped 
at  a  definite  line  in  the  west  and  at  setting 
the  sun  dropped  below  this  and  sent  a 
golden  flood  rolling  through  the  trees  that 
mark  the  boundary  between  field  and 
pond,  lighting  up  all  the  bog  with  glory 
and  gilding  the  muskrat  teepees  and  the 
tall  bog  grass  and  the  distant  trees  across 
the  water  till  all  the  sere  and  withered 
leaves  were  bathed  in  serenity,  as  softly 
and  serenely  bright  as  if  the  golden  age 
had  come  to  us  all.  In  this  wise  the  crys- 
tal day,  with  its  sheltered  exultation  of 
spring  and  its  gray  promise  of  winter's 
snow  all  fused  into  one  golden  delight  of 
sunset  glory,  marched  on  over  the  western 
hills  trailing  paths  of  gilded  shadow  be- 
hind it  along  which  one  walked  the  home- 
ward way  as  if  into  the  perfect  day. 


21 


CERTAIN  WHITE-FACED 
HORNETS 


CERTAIN  WHITE-FACED 
HORNETS 

A  HE  lonesomest  spot  in  all  the  pas- 
ture, the  one  which  the  winter  has  made 
most  vacant  of  all,  is  the  corner  where 
hangs  the  great  gray  nest  of  the  white- 
faced  hornets.  Its  door  stands  hospi- 
tably open  but  it  is  no  longer  thronged 
with  burly  burghers  roaring  to  and  fro 
on  business  that  cannot  wait.  It  was  wide 
enough  for  half  a  dozen  to  go  and  come 
at  the  same  time,  yet  they  used  to  jostle 
one  another  continually  in  this  entrance, 
so  great  was  the  throng  of  workers  and 
so  vigorous  the  energy  that  burbled  within 
them.  While  the  warm  sun  of  an  August 
day  shines  a  white-faced  hornet  is  as 
full  of  pent  forces,  striving  continually  to 
25 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

burst  him,  as  a  steam  fire-engine  is  when 
the  city  is  going  up  in  flame  and  smoke 
and  the  fire  chief  is  shouting  orders 
through  the  megaphone  and  the  engineer 
is  jumping  her  for  the  honor  of  the  de- 
partment and  the  safety  of  the  commu- 
nity. He  burbles  and  bumps  and  buzzes 
and  bursts,  almost,  in  just  the  same  way. 
It  is  no  wonder  that  people  misunder- 
stand such  roaring  energy,  driving  home 
sometimes  too  fine  a  point,  and  speak  of 
Vespa  maculata  and  his  near  of  kin  the 
yellow  jackets,  and  even  the  polite  and 
retiring  common.black  wasp,  with  dislike. 
In  this  the  genial  Ettrick  Shepherd,  high 
priest  of  the  good  will  of  the  open  world, 
does  him,  I  think,  much  wrong.  "  O'  a' 
God's  creatures  the  wasp,"  he  says,  "  is 
the  only  one  that  is  eternally  out  of  tem- 
per. There  's  nae  sic  thing  as  pleasing 
him." 

26 


WHITE-FACED    HORNETS 

This  opinion  is  so  universal  that  there 
is  little  use  in  trying  to  controvert  it,  and 
yet  these  white-faced  hornets  which  I 
have  known,  if  not  closely,  at  least  on 
terms  of  neighborliness,  do  not  seem  to 
merit  this  opprobrium.  That  they  are 
hasty  I  do  not  deny.  They  certainly  brook 
no  interference  with  their  right  to  a  home 
and  the  bringing  up  of  the  family.  But 
I  do  not  call  that  a  sign  of  ill  temper;  I 
think  it  is  patriotism. 

Probably  the  trouble  with  most  of  us 
is  that  we  have  happened  to  come  into 
quite  literal  contact  with  white-face  after 
the  fashion  of  one  of  the  early  explorers 
of  the  country  about  Massachusetts  Bay. 
Obadiah  Turner,  the  English  explorer 
and  journalist,  thus  chronicles  the  adven- 
ture in  the  quaint  phraseology  of  the 
year  1629. 

"  Ye  godlie  and  prudent  captain  of  ye 
27 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

occasion  did,  fpr  a  time,  sit  on  ye  stumpe 
in  pleasante  moode.  Presentlie  all  were 
hurried  together  in  great  alarum  to  wit- 
ness ye  strange  doing  of  ye  goode  olde 
man.  Uttering  a  lustie  screme  he 
bounded  from  ye  stumpe  and  they,  com- 
ing upp,  did  descrie  him  jumping  aboute 
in  ye  oddest  manner.  And  he  did  lyk- 
wise  puff  and  blow  his  mouthe  and  roll 
uppe  his  eyes  in  ye  most  distressful  waye. 
"  All  were  greatlie  moved  and  did 
loudlie  beg  of  him  to  advertise  them 
whereof  he  was  afflicted  in  so  sore  a 
manner,  and  presentlie,  he  pointing  to  his 
foreheade,  they  did  spy  there  a  small  red 
spot  and  swelling.  Then  did  they  begin 
to  think  yt  what  had  happened  to  him 
was  this,  yt  some  pestigeous  scorpion  or 
flying  devil  had  bitten  him.  Presentlie 
ye  paine  much  abating  he  saide  yt  as  he 
sat  on  ye  stumpe  he  did  spye  upon  ye 
28 


WHITE-FACED    HORNETS 

branch  of  a  tree  what  to  him  seemed  a 
large  fruite,  ye  like  of  wch  he  had  never 
before  seen,  being  much  in  size  and  shape 
like  ye  heade  of  a  man,  and  having  a 
gray  rinde,  wch  as  he  deemed,  betokened 
ripenesse.  There  being  so  manie  new 
and  luscious  fruites  discovered  in  this 
fayer  lande  none  coulde  know  ye  whole 
of  them.  And,  he  said,  his  eyes  did 
much  rejoice  at  ye  sight. 

"  Seizing  a  stone  he  hurled  ye  same 
thereat,  thinking  to  bnng  yt  to  ye 
grounde.  But  not  taking  faire  aime  he 
onlie  hit  ye  branch  whereon  hung  ye 
fruit.  Ye  jarr  was  not  enow  to  shake 
down  ye  same  but  there  issued  from  yt, 
as  from  a  nest,  divers  little  winged  scor- 
pions, mch  in  size  like  ye  large  fenn  flies 
on  ye  marshe  landes  of  olde  England. 
And  one  of  them,  bounding  against  hys 
forehead  did  give  in  an  instant  a  most 
29 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

terrible  stinge,  whereof  came  ye  horrible 
paine  and  agonie  of  wch  he  cried  out." 

Let  go  on  the  even  tenor  of  his  home- 
building  and  home-keeping  way,  white- 
face  is  another  creature.  One  of  his  kind 
used  to  make  trips  to  and  from  my  tent 
all  one  summer,  and  we  got  to  be  good 
neighbors.  At  first  I  viewed  him  with 
distrust  and  was  inclined  to  do  him  harm, 
but  he  dodged  my  blow  and  without 
deigning  to  notice  it  landed  plump  on  a 
house-fly  that  was  rubbing  his  forelegs 
together  in  congratulatory  manner  on 
the  tent  roof.  He  had  been  mingling 
with  germs  of  superior  standing,  without 
doubt,  this  housefly,  but  his  happiness 
over  the  success  of  the  event  was  of 
brief  duration.  There  came  from  his 
wings  just  one  tenuous  screech  of  alarm 
followed  by  an  ominous  silence  of  as 
brief  duration.  Then  came  the  deep  roar 
30 


WHITE-FACED    HORNETS 

of  the  hornet's  propellers  as  he  rounded 
the  curve  through  the  tent  door  and 
gave  her  full-speed  ahead  on  the  home 
road.  An  hour  later  he  was  with  me 
again,  had  captured  another  fly  almost 
immediately,  and  was  off.  He  came 
again,  many  times  a  day,  and  day  after 
day,  till  I  began  to  know  him  well  and 
follow  his  flights  with  the  interest  of  an 
old  friend. 

He  never  bothered  me  or  anyone  else. 
He  had  no  time  for  men;  the  capture  of 
house-flies  was  his  vocation  and  it  de- 
manded all  his  energy  and  attention.  In 
fact  that  he  might  succeed  it  was  neces- 
sary that  he  should  put  his  whole  soul 
into  earnest  endeavor,  for  he  was  not  par- 
ticularly well  equipped  for  his  work.  He 
had  neither  speed  nor  agility  as  compared 
with  his  quarry,  and  if  house-flies  can 
hear  and  know  what  is  after  them,  the 
31 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

roar  of  his  machinery,  even  at  slowest 
speed,  must  have  given  them  ample  warn- 
ing. It  was  like  a  freighter  seeking  to 
capture  torpedo  boats.  They  could  turn 
in  a  circle  of  a  third  the  radius  of  his  and 
could  fly  three  miles  to  his  one,  yet  he 
was  never  a  minute  in  getting  one. 

I  think  they  simply  took  him  for  an  en- 
larged edition  of  their  own  kind  and  never 
knew  the  difference  until  his  mandibles 
gripped  them;  He  used  to  go  bumbling 
and  butting  about  the  tent  in  a  near- 
sighted excitement  that  was  humorous  to 
the  onlooker.  He  did  n't  know  a  fly  from 
a  hole  in  the  tentpole,  and  there  was  a 
tack  in  the  ridgepole  whose  head  he  cap- 
tured in  exultation  and  let  go  in  a  sort  of 
slow  wonder  every  time  he  came  in.  He 
got  to  know  me  as  part  of  the  scenery  and 
did  n't  mind  lighting  on  top  of  my  head 
in  his  quest,  and  he  never  thought  of 
32 


WHITE-FACED    HORNETS 

stinging  me.  I  timed  his  visits  one  sunny, 
still  day  and  found  that  he  arrived  once 
in  forty  seconds.  But  this  was  only  under 
most  favorable  weather  conditions.  A 
cloud  over  the  sun  delayed  him  and  in 
wet  weather  he  was  never  to  be  seen. 

His  method  with  the  fly  in  hand  was 
direct  and  effective.  The  first  buzz  was 
followed  by  the  snip-snip  of  his  shear- 
like  maxillaries.  You  could  hear  the 
sound  and  immediately  see  the  gauzy 
wings  flutter  slowly  to  the  tent  floor.  If 
the  fly  kicked  much  his  legs  went  in  the 
same  way.  Then  white-face  took  a  firmer 
grip  on  his  prize  and  was  off  with  him  to 
the  nest.  The  bee  line  is  spoken  of  as  a 
model  of  mathematical  directness,  but  the 
laden  bee  seeking  the  hive  makes  no 
straighter  course  than  did  my  hornet  to 
his  nest  in  the  berry  bush  down  in  the 
pasture. 

33 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

Flies  were  plentiful  and,  knowing  how 
many  hornets  there  are  in  a  nest,  I  ex- 
pected at  first  that  he  would  bring  com- 
panions and  perhaps  overwhelm  my  hos- 
pitality with  mere  numbers,  but  he  did 
nothing  of  the  kind.  I  have  an  idea  that 
he  was  detailed  to  the  fly  catching  work 
just  as  other  workers  were  busy  gather- 
ing nectar  and  honey  dew  for  the  young 
and  others  still  were  nest  and  comb 
building.  Later  in  the  summer  another 
did  come,  but  I  am  convinced  that  he  hap- 
pened on  the  other's  game  preserve  by 
accident  and  was  not  invited.  The  two 
between  them  must  have  captured  thou- 
sands of  flies  and  carried  them  off  alive 
to  their  nest. 

Thus  their  paper  fort,  hung  from  the 
twigs  of  a  blueberry  bush,  had  by  Sep- 
tember grown  to  the  dimensions  of  a 
water-bucket  and  contained  a  prodigious 
34 


Their  paper  fort  had  by  September  grown  to  the  dimensions  of 
a  water-bucket  and  contained  a  prodigious  swarm  of  valiant 
fighters 


WHITE-FACED    HORNETS 

swarm  of  valiant  fighters  and  mighty 
laborers,  so  much  will  persistent  labor, 
even  by  near-sighted,  dimder-headed  hor- 
nets, accomplish.  I  say  near-sighted,  for 
the  two  specimens  of  Vespa  maculata 
who  used  to  hunt  flies  in  my  tent  were 
certainly  that.  I  say  also  dunder-headed, 
for  if  not  that  they  would  have  learned 
eventually  the  location  of  that  tack  head 
and  ceased  to  capture  it.  Barring  these 
failings,  no  doubt  congenital,  I  know  of 
no  pasture  people  who  show  greater  vir- 
tues or  more  of  them  than  the  white-faced 
hornets. 

The  weak  beginnings  of  their  great 
community  home  in  the  berry  bush  were 
made  in  early  May  when  a  single  lean  and 
hungry  queen  mother  crept  from  a  crevice 
in  the  heart  of  a  great 'hollow  chestnut 
where  she  had  survived  the  winter.  She 
sunned  herself  for  a  time  at  the  opening, 
35 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

then  began  eagerly  chewing  fibre  from  a 
gray  and  bare  dead  limb  near  by.  She 
chewed  this  and  when  it  was  softened  to 
a  pulp  she  flew  straight  to  the  berry  bush 
and  began  her  long  summer's  work. 
Laboring  patiently  she  made  and  brought 
enough  of  the  paper  pulp  moistened  with 
her  own  saliva  to  form  a  nest  half  the 
size  of  an  egg  containing  just  a  few  cells 
in  a  single  comb  that  was  horizontal  and 
opened  downward.  In  these  she  laid  an 
egg  each,  worker's  eggs. 

Always  the  first  brood  is  of  workers 
only,  and  it  would  seem  that  the  mother 
hornet  is  able  by  some  strange  necro- 
mancy to  lay  an  egg  which  shall  produce, 
as  she  wills,  a  worker,  a  drone  or  another 
queen,  for  the  hornet  hive,  like  that  of 
the  honey-bee,  has  the  three  varieties. 
While  these  eggs  hatch  she  completes  the 
nest  and  then  begins  feeding  the  funny 
36 


WHITE-FACED    HORNETS 

little  white  maggots  which  hang  head 
down  in  the  cells,  stuck  to  the  top  by  a 
sort  of  glue  which  was  deposited  with  the 

egg- 

Honey  and  pollen  is  the  food  which  the 
youngsters  receive,  varied  as  they  grow 
up  with  a  meat  hash  of  insects  caught  by 
the  mother  and  chewed  fine.  Soon  they 
fill  the  cells,  stop  eating,  and  spin  for 
themselves  a  sort  of  silk  night  shirt  and 
a  cap  with  which  they  close  the  mouth  of 
the  cell.  Here  they  remain  quiet  for  a 
few  days,  changing  from  grub  to  winged 
creature  as  does  a  butterfly  during  the 
chrysalis  stage  of  its  existence. 

Those  were  busy  days  for  the  queen 
mother,  for  she  had  the  work  and  the  care 
of  the  whole  wee  hive  on  her  hands,  and 
she  showed  herself  capable  not  only  of 
doing  her  own  feminine  part  in  the  hive 
economy,  but  that  of  half  a  dozen  work- 
37 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

ers  as  well,  making  paper,  doing  con- 
struction work,  finding  and  bringing 
honey  and  pollen  and  insects  for  the 
food  of  the  young  grubs,  and  finally  help- 
ing them  cut  away  the  seals  to  the  cells 
and  grasping  the  young  hornets  in  her 
mandibles  and  hauling  them  out  of  their 
comb. 

These  young  hornets  washed  their 
faces,  cleaned  their  antennae,  ate  one 
more  free  meal  and  set  to  work.  There- 
after the  queen  mother,  having  reared 
her  retinue,  worked  no  more,  but  kept 
the  hive  and  produced  worker  eggs  as 
new  cells  were  provided  for  them,  now 
and  then  perhaps  feeding  the  children 
when  the  workers  were  busiest. 

The  first  care  of  the  new-born  workers 

was  to  clean  out  the  once  used  cells  and 

to   build   new  ones.      But  there  was   no 

room  for  new  comb  within  the  thin  paper 

38 


WHITE-FACED    HORNETS 

envelope  which  the  mother  had  built  as 
a  first  hive.  They  therefore  cut  this 
away,  chewing  it  to  pulp  again,  and 
building  new  cells  with  a  larger  covering 
all  about  them.  Then  below  the  first 
comb  they  hung  a  second  by  paper  col- 
umns so  that  there  was  space  for  them  to 
pass  between  the  two,  standing  on  top  of 
one  comb  while  they  fed  the  young  hang- 
ing head  down  in  the  comb  above. 

They  also  added  cells  to  the  sides  of 
the  old  comb,  making  it  much  wider. 
The  first  little  round  egg-shaped  nest 
was  all  of  one  color,  a  soft  gray,  but  the 
new  additions  are  apt  to  be  lighter  or 
darker  in  color,  according  to  the  idiosyn- 
crasies of  the  individual  worker.  Some 
indeed  have  a  faint  touch  of  brown  when 
newly  added  to  the  structure  though  these 
soon  fade,  yet  you  may  recognize  always 
the  dividing  line  between  one  hornet's 
39 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

work  and  another's  by  the  difference  in 
shade. 

Thus  the  work  went  on  during  the 
summer,  more  cells  being  added  to  the 
existing  combs,  new  combs  being  hung 
below,  and  always  the  surrounding  en- 
velope being  cut  away  and  replaced  to  ac- 
commodate the  internal  growth.  Late 
August  saw  the  last  additions  made. 
The  hive  then  roared  with  life.  The  sum- 
mer had  been  a  good  one  and  food  was 
plentiful.  Under  the  bounty  of  fierce 
summer  heat  and  ample  food  the  workers 
had  developed  a  new  faculty. 

I  have  given  them  the  masculine  pro- 
noun in  speaking  of  them,  for  they  cer- 
tainly seemed  to  deserve  it.  Surely  only 
males  could  be  at  once  so  sharp  and  so 
blunt,  so  burly,  so  strenuous  and  so  de- 
void of  interest  in  anything  but  their 
work.  Yet  it  is  a  fact  that  in  August 
40 


WHITE-FACED    HORNETS 

some  of  the  workers  began  to  lay  eggs, 
and  if  the  old  proverb  that  "  Like  pro- 
duces like  "  holds  good  they  still  deserve 
the  masculine  pronoun,  for  these  eggs 
produced  only  males. 

At  the  same  time  the  queen  began  to 
lay  eggs  which  were  destined  to  produce 
other  queens.  How  all  this  could  have 
been  known  about  beforehand  it  is  hard 
to  tell,  but  such  must  have  been  the  fact, 
for  the  cells  in  which  these  eggs  were  to 
be  laid  were  made  larger  than  the  others 
as  the  greater  size  of  males  and  females 
requires. 

Thus  the  climax  of  the  work  of  the 
great  paper  hive  was  reached.  The  new 
queens  had  been  safely  reared  and  had 
reached  maturity  when  the  first  chill  days 
of  autumn  came.  These  days  brought 
rain,  and  the  change  from  bustling  life 
to  silence  was  most  startling.  Almost  in 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

a  day  the  hive  was  deserted.  It  was  as 
if  the  entire  colony  had  swarmed,  and  so 
they  had,  but  not  as  a  hive  of  bees  swarms. 
They  had  left  the  old  home  never  to  re- 
turn, but  not  as  a  colony  seeking  a  new 
land  in  which  to  prosper.  The  first  chill 
of  autumn  laid  the  cold  hand  of  death  on 
their  busy  life.  They  went  away  as  indi- 
viduals and  stopped,  numbed  with  cold, 
wherever  the  chill  caught  them. 

Where  they  went  it  is  hard  to  say,  but 
one  hornet  or  a  thousand  crawling  into  a 
crevice  to  escape  the  cold  is  easily  lost 
in  the  great  world  of  out-of-doors.  No 
worker  survives  the  winter.  I  think  the 
intensity  of  their  labors  during  the  sum- 
mer, the  continued  use  of  that  energy 
that  bubbles  within  them  all  summer 
long,  exhausts  them  and  they  succumb 
easily,  worked  out.  With  the  young 
queens  it  is  different.  Their  work  is  yet 
42 


WHITE-FACED    HORNETS 

to  come,  and  the  strong  young  life  within 
them  gives  them  vitality  to  endure  the 
winter,  though  seemingly  frozen  stiff  in 
their  crevices.  Yet  only  a  few  of  these 
come  through  in  safety.  If  the  queens 
of  one  hive  all  built  next  year,  the  pasture 
would  be  a  far  too  busy  place  for  mere 
man  to  visit. 

It  is  just  as  well  as  it  is,  yet  I  am  glad 
that  each  year  sees  at  least  one  queen 
white-face  pulp-making  in  the  May  sun. 
Pasture  life  without  her  uproarious  prog- 
eny would  lack  spice.  The  great  gray 
nest  is  pathetic  in  its  emptiness,  and  I  am 
glad  to  forget  it  and  its  bustling  throng, 
remembering  only  the  one  busy  worker 
that  used  to  come  into  the  tent  and,  hav- 
ing caught  his  fly,  hang  head  downward 
from  ridge-pole  or  canvas-edge  by  one 
hind  foot  while  all  his  other  feet  were 
busy  holding  his  lamb  for  the  shearing. 
•  43 


THIN  ICE 


THIN  ICE 

TOWARD  midnight  the  pond  fell 
asleep.  All  day  long  it  had  frolicked  with 
the  boisterous  north  wind,  pretending  to 
frown  and  turn  black  in  the  face  when 
the  cold  shoulders  of  the  gale  bore  down 
upon  its  surface,  dimpling  as  the  pres- 
sure left  it  and  sparkling  in  brilliant  glee 
as  the  low  hung  sun  laughed  across  its 
ruffles.  The  wind  went  down  with  the 
sun,  as  north  winds  often  do,  and  left  a 
clear  mirror  stretching  from  shore  to 
shore,  and  reflecting  the  cold  yellow  of 
the  winter  twilight. 

As    this    chill    twilight    iced    into    the 

frozen   purple   of   dusk,   tremulous   stars 

quivered    into    being    out    of    the    violet 

blackness  of  space.     The  nebular  hypoth- 

47 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

esis  is  born  again  in  the  heavens  each 
still  winter  night.  It  must  have  slipped 
thence  into  the  mind  of  Kant  as  he  stood 
in  the  growing  dusk  of  some  German 
December  watching  the  violet-gray  frost 
vapors  of  the  frozen  sky  condense  into 
the  liquid  radiance  of  early  starlight, 
then  tremble  again  into  the  crystalline 
glints  of  unknown  suns  whirling  in  ma- 
jestic array  through  the  full  night  along 
the  myriad  miles  of  interstellar  space. 

Standing  on  the  water's  edge  on  such 
a  night  you  realize  that  you  are  the  very 
centre  of  a  vast  scintillating  universe,  for 
the  stars  shine  with  equal  glory  beneath 
your  feet  and  above  your  head.  The 
earth  is  forgotten.  It  has  become  trans- 
parent, and  where  before  sunset  gray 
sand  lay  beneath  a  half-inch  of  water  at 
your  toe-tips,  you  now  gaze  downward 
through  infinite  space  to  the  nadir, 
48 


THIN    ICE 

the  unchartered,  unfathomable  distance 
checked  off  every  thousand  million  miles 
or  so  by  unnamed  constellations  that  blur 
into  a  milky  way  beneath  your  feet.  The 
pond  is  very  deep  on  still  winter  nights. 

If  you  will  take  canoe  and  glide  out 
into  the  centre  the  illusion  is  complete. 
There  is  no  more  earth  nor  do  the  waters 
under  the  earth  remain;  you  float  in  the 
void  of  space  with  the  Pleiades  for  your 
nearest  neighbor  and  the  pole  star  your 
only  surety.  In  such  situations  only  can 
you  feel  the  full  loom  of  the  universe. 
The  molecular  theory  is  there  stated  with 
yourself  as  the  one  molecule  at  the  centre 
of  incomputability.  It  is  a  relief  to  shat- 
ter all  this  with  a  stroke  of  the  paddle, 
shivering  all  the  lower  half  of  your  in- 
computable universe  into  a  quivering 
chaos,  and  as  the  shore  looms  black  and 
uncertain  in  the  bitter  chill  it  is  never- 
49 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

theless  good  to  see,  for  it  is  the  homely 
earth  coming  back  to  you.  You  have 
had  your  last  canoe  trip  of  the  year,  but 
it  has  carried  you  far. 

No  wonder  that  on  such  a  night  the 
pond,  falling  asleep  for  the  long  winter, 
dreams.  A  little  after  midnight  it  stirred 
uneasily  in  its  sleep  and  a  faint  quiver 
ran  across  its  surface.  A  laggard  puff 
of  the  north  wind  that,  straggling,  had 
itself  fallen  asleep  in  the  pine  wood  and 
waked  again,  was  now  hastening  to 
catch  up.  The  surface  water  had  been 
below  the  freezing  point  for  some  time 
and  with  the  slight  wakening  the  dreams 
began  to  write  themselves  all  along  as  if 
the  little  puff  of  wind  were  a  pencil  that 
drew  the  unformulated  thoughts  in  ice 
crystals:  Water  lying  absolutely  still  will 
often  do  this.  Its  temperature  may  go 
some  degrees  below  the  freezing  point 


THIN    ICE 

and  it  will  still  be  unchanged.  Stir  it 
faintly  and  the  ice  crystals  grow  across 
it  at  the  touch. 

Strange  to  tell,  too,  the  pond's  dreams 
at  first  were  not  of  the  vast  universe  that 
lay  hollowed  out  beneath  the  sky  and  was 
repeated  to  the  eye  in  its  clear  depths. 
Its  dreams  were  of  earth  and  warmth,  of 
vaporous  days  and  humid  nights  when 
never  a  frost  chill  touched  its  surface  the 
long  year  through,  and  the  record  the 
little  wind  wrote  in  the  ice  crystals  was 
of  the  growth  of  fern  frond  and  palm 
and  prehistoric  plant  life  that  grew  in 
tropic  luxuriance  in  the  days  when  the 
pond  was  young. 

These  first  bold,  free-hand  sketches 
touched  crystal  to  crystal  and  joined,  em- 
bossing a  strange  network  of  arabesques, 
plants  drawn  faithfully,  animals  of  the 
coal  age  sketched  in  and  suggested  only, 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

while  all  among  the  figures  great  and 
small  was  the  plaided  level  of  open  water. 
This  solidified,  dreamless,  about  and 
under  the  decorations,  and  the  pond  was 
frozen  in  from  shore  to  shore.  Thus  I 
found  it  the  next  morning,  level  and 
black  under  one  of  those  sunrises  which 
seem  to  shatter  the  great  crystal  of  the 
still  atmosphere  into  prisms.  The  cold 
has  been  frozen  out  of  the  sky,  and  in 
its  place  remains  some  strange  vivific 
principle  which  is  like  an  essence  of 
immortality. 

New  ice  thus  formed  has  a  wonderful 
strength  in  proportion  to  its  thickness. 
It  is  by  no  means  smooth,  however.  The 
embossing  of  the  reproductions  of  these 
pond  dreams  of  fern  and  palm  and  plesio- 
saurus  makes  hubbies  under  your  steel 
as  you  glide  over  it,  though  little  you 
care  for  that  on  your  first  skate  of  the 
52 


THIN    ICE 

year.  The  embossing  it  is,  I  think,  that 
largely  gives  it  its  strength,  and  though 
it  may  crack  and  sag  beneath  you  as  you 
strike  out,  you  know  that  its  black  tex- 
ture is  made  up  of  interlacing  crystals 
that  slip  by  one  another  in  the  bending, 
but  take  a  new  grip  and  hold  until  your 
weight  fairly  tears  them  apart. 

The  small  boy  knows  this  instinctively 
and  applies  it  as  he  successfully  runs 
"  teetley-bendoes  "  to  the  amazement  and 
terror  of  the  uninitiated  grown-ups.  If 
you  have  the  heart  of  the  small  boy  still, 
though  with  an  added  hundred  pounds  in 
weight,  you  may  yet  dare  as  he  does  and 
add  to  the  exhilaration  born  of  the  wine- 
sweet  air  the  spice  of  audacity.  An  inch 
or  so  of  transparent  ice  lies  between  you 
and  a  ducking  among  the  fishes  which 
dart  through  the  clear  depths,  fleeing  be- 
fore the  under  water  roar  of  your  ad- 
53 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

vance,  for  the  cracks,  starting  beneath 
your  feet  and  flashing  in  rainbow  prog- 
ress before  you  and  to  the  right  and 
left,  send  wild  vibrations  whooping  and 
whanging  through  the  ice  all  over  the 
pond.  Now  the  visible  bottom  drops 
away  beneath  you  to  an  opaqueness  that 
gives  you  a  delicious  little  sudden  gasp 
of  fear,  for  you  realize  the  depth  into 
which  you  might  sink;  again  it  rises  to 
meet  you  and  here  you  may  bear  down 
and  gain  added  impetus,  for  you  know 
that  the  ice  will  be  thicker  in  shallow 
water. 

So  you  go  on,  and  ever  on.  It  is  not 
wise  to  retrace  your  strokes,  for  those 
ice  crystals  that  gave  to  let  you  through 
and  then  gripped  one  another  again  to 
hold  you  up  may  not  withstand  a  second 
impact;  nor  is  it  wise  to  stop.  Mass  and 
motion  have  given  you  momentum  and 
54 


THIN    ICE 

you  have  acquired  some  of  the  obscure 
stability  of  the  gyroscope.  You  tend  to 
stay  on  your  plane  of  motion,  though  the 
ice  itself  has  strength  to  hold  only  part 
of  your  weight.  Thus  the  wild  duck, 
threshing  the  air  with  mighty  strokes, 
glides  over  it,  held  up  by  the  same  ob- 
scure force.  The  ice  has  no  time  to 
break  and  let  you  through.  You  are 
over  it  and  onto  another  bit  of  uncracked 
surface  before  it  can  let  go. 

The  day  warmed  a  little  with  a  clear 
sun  but  the  frost  that  night  bit  deep 
again  and  the  next  morning  the  ice  had 
nearly  doubled  in  thickness  and  would 
not  crack  under  any  strain  which  my 
weight  could  put  upon  it.  A  second 
freezing,  even  though  both  be  thin,  gives 
a  stronger  ice  than  a  single  freezing  of 
equal  depth,  just  as  the  English  bow- 
maker  of  the  old  days  used  to  glue  to- 
55 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

gether  a  strip  of  lancewood  and  a  strip 
of  yew,  or  even  two  strips  of  the  same 
wood,  thus  making  a  far  stiffer  bow 
than  one  made  of  a  single  piece  of  equiva- 
lent dimensions. 

This  ice  was  much  smoother  too.  That 
evaporation  which  is  steadily  going  on 
from  the  surface  of  ice  even  in  the  coldest 
weather,  the  crystals  passing  to  vapor 
without  the  intervening  stage  of  water, 
had  worn  off  the  embossing.  The  ice  in- 
stead of  being  black  was  gray  with 
countless  air  bubbles  all  through  its  tex- 
ture. You  will  always  find  these  after 
a  day's  clear  sun  on  a  first  freezing.  I 
fancy  the  ice  crystals  make  minute  burn- 
ing glasses  under  the  sun's  rays  and  thus 
cause  tiny  meltings  within  its  own  bulk, 
the  steam  of  the  fusing  making  the 
bubbles;  or  it  may  be  that  the  air  with 
which  the  north  wind  of  two  days  before 

56 


THIN    ICE 

had  been  saturating  the  water  was  thus 
escaping  from  solution. 

It  was  midday  of  this  second  day  of 
skating  weather  before  I  reached  the 
pond.  The  sky  was  overcast,  the  wind 
piped  shrill  again,  and  there  were  snow- 
squalls  about.  The  pond  was  empty  and 
lone.  I  thought  no  living  creature  there 
beside  myself,  and  it  was  only  at  the 
second  call  of  a  familiar  voice  that  I  be- 
lieved I  heard  it.  Then,  indeed,  I  stopped 
and  listened  up  the  wind.  It  came  again, 
a  wild  and  lonely  whistle  that  was  half 
a  shout,  beginning  on  the  fifth  of  the 
scale,  sliding  to  the  top  of  the  octave, 
and  then  to  a  third  above,  and  I  heard  it 
with  amazement.  The  pond  was  firmly 
covered  with  young  ice.  Why  should  a 
loon  be  sitting  out  on  it  and  hooting  to 
me? 

There  was  silence  for  a  space  while  I 
57 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

looked  in  vain,  for  the  first  flakes  of  a 
snow-squall  were  whitening  the  air  and 
had  made  the  distant  shore  indistinct. 
Then  it  spoke  again,  almost  confiden- 
tially, that  still  lonely  but  more  pleasing 
whinny,  a  sort  of  "  Who-who-who-who  " 
that  is  like  a  tremulous  question,  weird 
laughter,  or  a  note  of  pain  as  best  fits  the 
mind  of  the  listener.  The  voice  came 
from  the  geographical  centre  of  the 
pond's  loneliness,  the  one  point  where  a 
wild  bird  like  the  loon,  obliged  to  make 
a  stand,  would  find  himself  farthest  from 
all  frequented  shores.  I  skated  up  the 
wind  in  that  direction,  but  the  snow  blew 
in  my  eyes  and  I  could  see  but  little. 

Suddenly  right  in  front  of  me  there 
was  a  wild  yell  of  dismay,  despair  and 
defiance  all  mingled  in  a  single  loon  note, 
but  so  clearly  expressed  that  you  could 
not  fail  to  recognize  them,  then  a  quick 
58 


THIN    ICE 

splash,  and  I  had  almost  skated  into  a 
hole  in  the  ice,  perhaps  some  ten  feet 
across. 

Then  I  knew  what  had  happened.  A 
loon,  wing-tipped  by  some  poor  marks- 
man, had  dropped  into  the  pond  before 
the  freeze.  He  could  dive  and  swim,  no 
doubt,  as  well  as  ever  but  could  not  leave 
the  water.  When  the  pond  began  to 
freeze  he  did  the  only  thing  possible  in 
his  losing  fight.  That  was  to  seek  the 
loneliest  spot  in  the  surface  and  keep  an 
opening  in  the  ice  when  it  began  to  form. 
I  could  see  the  fifteen-foot  circle  which 
had  been  his  haven  for  the  first  night 
and  day.  Then  with  the  second  freezing 
night  he  had  been  obliged  to  shorten  this. 
Two  feet  and  a  half  of  new  ice  showed 
his  inner  line  of  defence  rimmed  accur- 
ately within  the  greater  circle  and  show- 
ing much  splashing  where  he  had,  I 
59 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

thought,  breasted  it  desperately  all  the 
long  night  in  his  brave  fight  to  keep  it 
open. 

How  long  without  human  intervention 
he  might  brave  the  elements  and  keep 
his  narrowing  circle  unfrozen  would  of 
course  depend  on  the  weather.  If  it  did 
not  come  on  too  severe  he  might  live  on 
there  till  his  wing  healed  and  by  a  mir- 
acle win  again  to  flight  and  safety.  The 
cold  would  not  trouble  him  nor  the  icy 
water.  The  loon  winters  anywhere 
from  southern  Massachusetts  south  and, 
strong  and  well,  has  no  fear  of  winter. 
But  there  entered  into  this  the  human 
equation.  The  next  man  along  would 
likely  go  home  and  get  a  shotgun. 

As   I   noted  all  this   a  head  appeared 

above  the  water  in  the  pool.     There  was 

another  shriek  of  alarm  and  it  vanished 

in  a  flash  and  a  splash.    It  was  forty  sec- 

60 


THIN    ICE 

onds  by  my  watch  before  the  bird  ap- 
peared again.  This  time  he  rose  almost 
fully  to  the  surface  and  sounded  a  war 
cry,  then  dove  again  and  was  under  for 
seventy  seconds.  And  so  as  long  as  I 
stood  my  distance  motionless  he  came 
and  went,  never  above  water  for  more 
than  a  few  seconds,  varying  in  length 
of  time  that  he  stayed  below  from  half 
a  minute  to  a  minute  and  a  quarter,  and 
never  going  below  without  sounding  the 
eerie  heartbreak  of  his  call. 

Then  I  skated  away  to  get  my  camera 
and  was  gone  three-quarters  of  an  hour. 
Returning  I  saw  him  in  the  distance,  for 
the  snow  had  almost  passed.  He  saw 
me  too  and  dived.  Gliding  up  I  knelt  at 
the  very  edge  of  the  hole  and  was  fixing 
the  camera  when  he  came  up.  He  sat 
level  on  the  surface  for  a  second,  seem- 
ingly not  noticing  me.  Then,  warned  by 
61 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

a  motion  that  I  made  in  trying  to  adjust 
the  focus,  he  sounded  a  wild  and  plain- 
tive call  that  seemed  to  have  in  it 
mingled  fear  and  defiance,  heartbreak 
and  triumph,  and  plunged  beneath  the 
surface  with  a  vigor  and  decision  that 
sent  him  far  beneath  the  ice,  his  great 
webbed  feet  driving  him  with  great 
jumps,  as  a  frog  swims. 

I  saw  him  shoot  away  from  the  hole, 
trailing  bubbles.  I  waited  kneeling, 
watch  in  hand  and  thumb  on  bulb,  a 
minute,  two  minutes,  three,  five,  ten. 
The  snow  shut  in  again  thick,  the  north 
wind  sang  a  plaintive  dirge  and  I  real- 
ized that  the  picture  would  never  be 
taken.  Instead  I  was  kneeling  at  the 
deathbed  of  a  wild  Northern  spirit  that 
perhaps  deliberately  took  that  way  of 
ending  the  unequal  struggle. 

The  loon  knows  not  the  land.  Even 
62 


THIN    ICE 

his  nest  he  builds  on  the  v/ater's  edge 
and  clambers  awkwardly  to  it  with  wings 
and  bill  as  well  as  feet.  The  air  and 
water  are  his  home,  the  water  far  more 
than  the  air,  and  he  knows  the  under- 
water world  as  well  as  he  does  the  sur- 
face. I  shall  never  know  whether  my 
loon  went  so  far  in  his  flight  beneath 
the  ice  that  he  failed  to  find  his  way 
back,  or  whether  his  strength  gave  out. 
Knowing  his  untamed  and  fearless  spirit 
I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  he  delib- 
erately elected  to  die  at  home,  in  the  cool 
depths  that  he  loved  rather  than  come 
back  to  his  poor  refuge  in  the  narrowing 
ice  circle  and  face  that  strange  creature 
that  knelt  at  the  edge. 


WINTER  FERN-HUNTING 


WINTER  FERN-HUNTING 

A  HE  spring  of  this,  our  new  year  of 
1909,  is  set  by  the  wise  makers  of  calen- 
dars to  begin  at  the  vernal  equinox, 
say  the  twenty-first  of  March,  but  the 
weatherwise  know  that  on  that  date  east- 
ern Massachusetts  is  still  in  the  thrall  of 
winter,  and  spring,  as  they  see  it,  is  not 
due  till  a  month  later. 

Yet  they  are  both  wrong,  and  we  need 
but  go  into  the  woods  now  to  prove  it. 
The  spring  in  fact  is  already  here.  The 
new  life  in  which  it  is  to  express  itself 
in  a  thousand  forms  is  already  growing 
and  much  of  it  had  its  beginning  in  late 
August  or  early  September  of  last  year. 
The  wind  out  of  the  north  may  retard  it 
indeed,  but  it  needs  but  a  touch  of  the 
67 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

south  wind  to  start  it  in  motion  again, 
and  the  deep  snows  that  are  yet  to  come 
and  bury  it  so  that  the  waves  of  arctic 
atmosphere  that  may  roll  over  its  head 
for  weeks  will  never  be  able  to  touch  it 
are  a  help. 

Many  a  hardy  little  spring  plant  blooms 
first,  not  in  April  as  we  are  apt  to  think, 
but  more  likely  in  January,  though  it 
may  be  two  feet  deep  beneath  the  snow 
and  ice  and  unseen  by  any  living  creature. 
To  go  no  farther  than  my  own  garden, 
I  have  known  a  late  January  thaw,  rap- 
idly carrying  off  deep  snow,  to  reveal 
the  "  ladies'  delights  "  in  bloom  beneath 
an  overarching  crust  of  ice.  The  warm 
snow  blankets  had  effectually  insulated 
the  autumn  grown  buds  from  the  zero 
temperature  two  feet  above,  and  the 
warmth  of  the  earth  beneath  had  not 
only  passed  through  the  frost  but  melted 
68 


WINTER    FERN-HUNTING 

a  little  cavern  beneath  the  snow,  and 
there  the  hardy  plants  had  responded  to 
the  impulse  of  the  spring  that  was  al- 
ready with  them. 

In  this  wise  the  chickweed  blooms  the 
year  round  though  rarely  are  circum- 
stances such  that  we  note  it  in  the  winter 
months.  Now  and  then  the  hepatica 
opens  shy  blue  eyes  beneath  the  enfold- 
ing snow  and  it  is  common  in  times  of 
open  weather  in  midwinter  to  read  news- 
paper reports  of  the  blooming  of  dande- 
lions in  December,  or  January.  These 
are  just  as  much  in  bloom  on  other  win- 
ters but  the  snow  covers  them  from 
sight  and  it  takes  a  thaw  which  sweeps 
the  ground  clear  of  snow  to  reveal  them. 

It  is  good  now  and  then  to  get  a  green 
Christmas  such  as  we  have  just  had,  for 
in  it  we  may  go  forth  into  the  fields  and 
realize  that  the  spring  has  not  retreated 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

to  the  Bahamas,  but  merely  to  the  sub- 
soil, whence  it  slips,  full  of  warmth  and 
thrill,  on  any  sunshiny  day.  If  we  will 
but  seek  the  right  places  we  need  not 
search  long  to  find  April  all  about  us, 
though  they  may  be  cutting  ten-inch  ice 
on  the  pond  and  winter  overcoats  be  the 
prevailing  wear. 

To-day  I  found  young  and  thrifty 
plants,  green  and  succulent,  of  two  vari- 
eties of  fern  that  are  not  common  in  my 
neighborhood  and  that  I  had  never  sus- 
pected in  that  location.  I  had  passed 
them  amid  the  universal  green  of  summer 
without  noticing  them,  but  now  their 
color  stood  out  among  the  prevailing 
browns  and  grays  as  vividly  as  yellow 
blossoms  do  in  a  June  meadow. 

Yet  I  sought  the  greater  ferns  of  my 
acquaintance  in  vain  in  many  an  accus- 
tomed place.  Down  by  the  fountain 
70 


WINTER    FERN-HUNTING 

head  is  a  spot  where  the  black  muck, 
cushioned  with  yielding  sphagnum,  slopes 
gently  upward  to  firmer  ground  beneath 
the  maples  till  these  give  way  to  the 
birches  on  the  drier  hillside.  Here  the 
ostrich  fern  waved  its  seven-foot  fronds 
in  feathery  beauty  amid  the  musky  twi- 
light of  the  swamp  all  summer  long. 

It  was  as  if  giants,  playing  battledore, 
had  driven  a  hundred  green  shuttlecocks 
to  land  in  the  woodcock-haunted  shelter. 
The  tangle  of  their  fronds  was  chin  high 
and  you  smashed  your  way  through  their 
woody  stipes  with  difficulty,  so  strong 
and  thick  were  they.  Now  they  have 
vanished  and  scarcely  a  trace  of  their 
presence  remains.  Brown  and  brittle 
stalks  rise  a  little  from  the  earth  here 
and  there,  and  if  you  search  among  fallen 
leaves  you  may  find  the  ends  of  their  root- 
stalks  with  the  growth  for  next  year 
71 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

coiled  in  compact  bundles  there,  ready  to 
unfold. 

From  these  rootstalks  spring  in  all 
directions  slender  underground  runners 
whence  will  grow  new  plants.  But  none 
of  this  is  visible.  The  only  reminder  of 
that  once  luxurious  thicket  is  the  brittle, 
brown  stalks  that  still,  here  and  there, 
protrude  from  the  fallen  leaves. 

It  is  difficult  to  see  wrhere  they  all 
went,  but  there  is  something  savoring  of 
the  supernatural  about  ferns,  anyway. 
Shakspeare  says :  "  We  have  the  receipt 
of  fern-seed;  we  walk  invisible/'  For 
men  to  use  this  receipt  the  seed  must  be 
garnered  on  St.  John's  eve  in  a  white 
napkin  with  such  and  such  incantations 
properly  recited.  The  Struthiopteris  ger- 
manica  had  plenty  of  fern-seed  on  St. 
John's  eve.  It  must  have  used  the  old- 
time  incantations  with  success,  for  all  the 
72 


WINTER    FERN-HUNTING 

giant  shuttlecocks  that  thronged  the 
swale  with  a  close-set  tangle  of  feathery 
green  have  vanished. 

I  sought  another  moist  and  shady 
woodland  where  all  the  early  spring  the 
ground  was  a  warm  pinky  brown  with 
the  fuzz  of  uncurling  fiddle  heads,  and 
later  the  brown,  leaf-carpeted  earth  was 
hidden  in  a  delicate  lace  patterned  of  the 
young  fronds  of  the  cinnamon  and  the 
interrupted  fern.  To  this  \voodland  came 
the  yellow-warblers  for  the  soft  fuzz  for 
use  in  nest  building,  it  compacting  read- 
ily into  a  felt-like  mass  that  is  at  once 
yielding  and  durable.  The  cinnamon 
fern  when  it  has  reached  any  size  has 
an  underground  stump  that  is  as  woody 
and  tough  almost  as  that  of  a  tree.  Its 
strong  fronds  are  next  to  those  of  the 
ostrich-fern  in  the  woody  vigor  of  their 
stipes.  Surely  these  might  have  lasted, 
73 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

Yet  not  one  form  of  fern  life  was  visible 
in  this  once  thronged  wood.  Like  the 
ostrich  ferns  they  had  poured  their  own 
fern-seed  on  their  heads  and  whispered 
the  correct  incantation  at  the  coming  of 
the  first  chill  wind.  I  am  inclined  to 
think  it  all  happened  in  a  jiffy,  when  hap- 
pen it  did,  for  I  have  been  back  and  forth 
through  that  part  of  the  wood  all  the 
fall  and  I  cannot  recall  the  day  on  which 
they  were  first  missing.  It  seems  as  if  I 
would  have  noticed  their  gradual  crum- 
bling and  decay. 

The  same  is  true  of  the  clumps  of  Os- 
munda  regalis  that  grew  here  and  there 
along  the  pond  shore.  Rightly  named 
"  regalis "  they  stood  in  royal  beauty 
four  or  five  feet  tall  and  leaning  over  the 
water's  edge  admired  the  bipinnate  grace 
of  their  fronds,  while  the  tallest  stalks 
v  bore  aloft  the  clusters  of  spore  cases  that 

74 


WINTER    FERN-HUNTING 

looked  like  long  spikes  of  plumed  flowers. 
No  wonder  the  plant  which  is  common  to 
England  also  drew  the  notice  of  Words- 
worth, who  refers  to  it  as  — 

"  that  tall  fern, 

So  stately,  of  the  queen  Osmunda  named. 
Plant  lovelier  in  its  own  retired  abode 
On  Grassmere  beach  than  naiad  by  the  side 
Of  Grecian  brook." 

Flowering  fern  it  is  rightly  named,  too, 
but  it  had  flowered  and  gone,  and  I  found 
of  all  its  regal  beauty  but  a  single  stalk 
with  brown  spore-cases  held  rigidly  aloft 
among  a  tangle  of  brown  leaves  and  bog 
grass. 

Then  I  looked  for  the  sensitive  fern. 
This  with  its  slender,  creeping  rootstock 
sending  up  single  fronds  is  less  woody 
than  any  of  the  others  and  I  began  to 
suspect  that  it  would  have  disappeared 
utterly.  So  the  sterile  fronds  had. 
75 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

There  was  no  trace  of  them  in  spots  that 
in  summer  were  a  perfect  tangle.  But 
this  was  not  true  of  the  fertile  stalks. 
Here  and  there  these,  like  the  one  of  the 
royal  fern,  stood  erect  and  bore  their 
close-lipped  spore  cases,  seal-brown  and 
stiff,  high  above  dead  leaves  and  other 
decay  of  fragile  annuals. 

All  this  made  a  disheartening  fern 
chase,  and  I  turned  to  the  steep  side  of 
the  hemlock-shaded  northern  hill,  sure  of 
one  hardy  variety  that  would  have  no  use 
for  invisibility,  however  chill  the  north 
wind  might  blow.  No  smile  of  direct 
sunlight  ever  touches  this  hill.  It  is  set  so 
steep  that  only  the  mid-summer  midday 
sun  overtops  its  slant  and  this  the  dense 
hemlock  foliage  shuts  out.  No  woodland 
grasses  grow  in  its  dense  shadow  and 
only  here  and  there  the  partridge  berry 
and  the  pyrola  creep  down  a  little  from 
76 


WINTER   FERN-HUNTING 

the  top  of  the  ridge  where  some  sunlight 
slips  in.  Yet  in  its  densest  part  the 
Christmas  fern  revels  and  throws  up 
fronds  that  seem  to  catch  some  of  their 
dark  beauty  from  the  deep  green  twi- 
light of  the  place.  In  the  spring  these 
stand  in  varying  degrees  of  erectness,  but 
autumn  seems  to  bring  a  change  in  the 
cellular  structure  of  the  lower  part  of  the 
stipe  and  weaken  it  so  that  the  fronds  fall 
flat  upon  the  earth.  They  lose  none  of 
their  firm  texture  or  color,  however,  and 
be  the  temperature  ever  so  low  or  the 
snow  ever  so  deep  they  undergo  no  fur- 
ther change  till  the  next  spring  fronds 
are  well  under  way.  Sometimes  even 
in  mid-summer  you  may  find  the  fronds 
of  the  year  before,  somewhat  fungi- 
encumbered  and  darkened  with  age,  but 
still  green. 

No   other    fern   grows    in   the    denser 
77 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

portions  of  this  hemlock  twilight,  though 
the  Christmas  fern  clings  close  to  it,  and 
does  not  spread  to  the  more  open  glades 
on  other  portions  of  the  hill.  Another 
northern  hill  of  similar  steepness  but 
shaded  by  an  old  growth  of  pines  through 
which  certain  sunlight  filters  during  most 
of  the  day  has  specimens  of  the  Polysti- 
chuni  acrostichoides  growing  only  in  its 
most  sheltered  nooks  from  which  they 
do  not  seem  to  spread  even  to  the 
brighter  spots  near  by  on  the  same  de- 
clivity. Hence  I  infer  that  the  plant  pre- 
fers the  twilight,  and  does  not  thrive  in 
even  occasional  sunlight. 

Just  at  the  base  of  this  second  hill, 
however,  where  cool  springs  begin  to 
bubble  forth  in  the  mottled  shadow,  I 
caught  a  gleam  of  a  lighter,  lovelier  green 
that  was  like  a  dapple  of  sunlight  on 
clumps  of  Christmas  ferns,  and  I  came 
78 


WINTER    FERN-HUNTING 

near  passing  it  by  for  that  Then,  be- 
cause I  had  never  seen  this  fern  growing 
in  a  dapple  of  sunlight,  I  went  to  it  and 
found  that  I  had  chanced  upon  a  group 
of  the  spinulose  wood  fern.  The  plu- 
mose fronds*  showed  no  more  winter 
effects  than  did  those  of  the  Christmas 
ferns.  The  keen  frosts  had  not  shriv- 
elled them,  nor  was  there  any  hint  of  the 
brown  that  might  come  with  the  ripening 
of  leaves  or  the  departure  of  sap. 

Like  the  other  ferns  they  had  suffered 
a  failing  of  tissues  near  the  base  of  the 
stipe,  but  pinnules,  midribs  and  rachis 
were  as  softly,  radiantly  green  as  they 
had  been  under  the  full  warmth  of  the 
summer  sun.  Owing  to  this  failure  of 
tissues  in  the  stipe  they  lay  flat  to  the 
ground,  but  they  were  still  beautiful,  per- 
haps more  so  than  they  had  been  when 
they  stood  more  erect  in  summer,  and 
79 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

were  obscured  and  hidden  by  the  other 
green  things  of  the  wood.  I  know  I 
tramped  within  a  few  feet  of  them  again 
and  again  last  summer  without  noticing 
them,  yet  to-day  they  caught  my  eye  a 
long  way  off,  and  held  it  in  admiration 
even  after  a  long  and  close  inspection. 

Farther  down  in  the  very  swamp,  laid 
flat  along  the  sphagnum  and  oftentimes 
frozen  to  it,  were  fronds  of  the  crested 
shield-fern  and  the  patches  of  these 
tolled  me  far  from  my  find  and  it  was 
only  on  coming  back  for  another  look 
that  I  discovered  the  prettiest  thing  about 
it.  That  was,  near  by  and  half  sheltered 
by  tips  of  the  elder  fronds,  young  plants 
of  the  same  variety,  just  advancing  from 
the  prothallus  stage  and  having  one  or 
two  miniature  fronds  like  those  of  the 
parent  plant  but  not  more  than  two  or 
three  inches  long. 

80 


WINTER    FERN-HUNTING 

These  looked  so  tiny  as  compared  with 
the  mature  ferns,  but  were  so  erect  and 
confident,  so  fresh  and  green  and  very 
much  alive  though  the  temperature  about 
them  night  after  night  had  been  far 
below  freezing  and  their  roots  then  stood 
in  ice,  that  it  was  worth  a  journey,  just 
to  look  at  them.  How  their  tender  tis- 
sues had  stood  the  temperature  of  ten 
above  zero  that  had  surrounded  them  a 
fe\v  nights  before  is  more  than  I  can 
answer.  The  faintest  touch  of  frost  kills 
the  fronds  of  the  great  seemingly  tough 
cinnamon  and  ostrich  ferns.  Yet  these 
dainty  little  plants  of  Nephr odium  spinu- 
losum  with  their  miniature  fronds  of 
tender  lacework  had  not  even  wilted  or 
cowered  before  deep  and  continued  cold 
as  had  the  stalks  of  their  elders  of  the 
same  species,  but  stood  erect,  nonchalant 
and  seemingly  eagerly  growing  still. 
81 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

We  may  say  if  we  will  that  it  is  all 
a  part  of  that  magic  of  youth  that  makes 
a  million  miracles  each  spring  but  that 
does  not  explain  it.  Why  should  these 
be  so  strong  and  full  of  life  when  the 
fronds  of  the  hay-scented  fern,  for  in- 
stance, have  been  shrivelled  to  dry  and 
crumbling  brown  fragments  under  the 
same  conditions?  I  cannot  answer  this 
either. 

Last  of  all  I  thought  of  the  polypodys 
that  grow  in  the  rock  crevices  all  down 
along  the  glen,  and  went  to  see  how  they 
fared.  It  has  been  a  hard  year  for  these 
little  fellows.  There  must  have  been 
weeks  at  a  time  during  the  scorching 
days  of  the  long  summer's  drought  that 
their  roots,  clinging  precariously  in  rock 
crevices  and  dependent  for  moisture 
wholly  on  rain  and  dew,  were  dry  to  the 
tips.  The  very  heat  of  the  rock  itself 
82 


WINTER   FERN-HUNTING 

under  the  blister  of  the  sun  would  not 
only  evaporate  all  moisture,  but  would  so 
remain  in  the  rock  all  night  as  to  prevent 
any  dew  from  condensing  on  it. 

I  had  seen  the  polypodys  at  midday 
curled  up  on  themselves  seemingly  noth- 
ing but  dried  tissues  that  could  never  be 
again  infused  with  the  breath  of  green 
life.  Yet,  let  there  come  but  the  briefest 
of  showers  and  you  would  see  them  un- 
curl, lift  their  fronds  to  the  breeze,  and  go 
on  as  cheerily  as  their  lower  level  neigh- 
bors the  lady-ferns  whose  pinnules  flashed 
in  the  drip  of  the  splashing  stream  and 
whose  roots  bathed  in  the  shallows. 

The  summer  must  have  weakened 
them.  Were  they  the  sort  to  shrivel  at 
the  touch  of  the  freezing  wind  and  vanish 
into  the  fern-seed  magic  of  invisibility? 
Not  they.  The  slender  crevice  of  black 
dirt  in  which  their  roots  grow  was  black 

83 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

adamant  with  frost,  but  the  polypodys 
swayed  in  the  biting  wind  as  jauntily  as 
they  had  in  the  soft  airs  of  summer  and 
were  as  green  and  unharmed  by  the  win- 
ter thus  far  as  the  Christmas  ferns  had 
been. 

While  I  gazed  at  them,  admiring  their 
toughness  and  courage,  my  eye  caught 
a  bit  of  greenery  on  the  rock  high 
above  and  I  had  found  the  second 
unexpected  fern  of  my  winter  day's 
hunt,  for  there  from  a  crevice  dripped 
the  rounded,  finely  crenate,  dark  green 
pinnse  of  Asplenium  trichomanes,  the 
maidenhair  spleenwort. 

Many  a  day  during  the  summer  had  I 
sat  on  that  ledge,  listening  to  the  prattle 
of  the  brook  down  the  glen  and  watching 
the  demoiselle  flies  flit  coquettishly  up 
and  down  stream  while  the  dragonflies 
with  masculine  directness  darted  hither 
ft 


WINTER    FERN-HUNTING 

and  thither.  The  polypodys  must  have 
often  dropped  their  fern-seed  on  my  head, 
but  the  magic  that  they  invoked  with  it 
must  have  been  of  the  sort  that  made  not 
me,  but  the  little  fern  above  invisible,  for 
it  remained  for  this  winter  day  of  a 
green  Christmas  week  to  show  me  its 
fragile  beauty  still  green  and  undisturbed 
in  the  winter  weather.  No  other  evi- 
dence was  needed,  nor  could  I  have  any 
so  good,  to  prove  that  spring  is  indeed 
here  before  the  winter  comes,  and  though 
the  cold  and  snow  may  retard  they  can- 
not prevent  it  from  reaching  the  full 
beauty  and  climax  of  maturity. 


THE  BARE  HILLS  IN 
MIDWINTER 


THE   BARE   HILLS   IN 
MIDWINTER 

1  OWARD  morning  the  south  rain, 
whose  downpour  was  the  climax  of  the 
January  thaw,  ceased,  and  in  the  warm 
silence  that  followed  Great  Blue  Hill 
seemed  like  a  gigantic  puffball  growing 
out  of  the  moist  twilight  into  the  dryer 
upper  atmosphere  of  dawn.  Standing  on 
its  rounded  dome  you  had  a  singular 
sense  of  being  swung  with  it  upward  and 
eastward  to  meet  the  light.  At  such  times 
the  whirling  of  the  earth  on  its  axis  is  so 
very  real  that  one  wonders  that  the  an- 
cients did  not  discover  it  long  before  they 
did.  Surely  their  mountaineers  must 
have  known. 

After  a  little  the  battlemented  donjon 
89 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

of  the  observatory  looms  clear  and  you 
begin  to  notice  other  details  of  the  gray 
earth  beneath  your  feet.  The  south  wind 
has  brought  and  left  with  you  for  a  brief 
space  the  atmosphere  of  the  Bermudas, 
and  you  need  only  the  joyous  hubbub  of 
bird  songs  to  think  it  June  instead  of 
January.  Instead  there  is  a  breathless 
silence  that  is  like  resignation  and  a  por- 
tent all  in  one.  Breathing  this  soft  air 
in  the  golden  glow  of  daybreak  it  seems 
as  if  there  could  never  be  such  things  as 
zero  temperature  and  northwest  gales; 
but  the  whole  top  of  the  hill  keeps  silence. 
It  knows. 

As  the  day  grows  brighter  you  can  see 
the  little  scrub-oaks  that  make  the  sum- 
mit plateau  their  home  crouch  and  settle 
themselves  together  for  the  endurance 
test  which  is  their  winter  lot.  They  have 
opened  their  hearts  to  the  south  rain 
90 


BARE    HILLS    IN    MIDWINTER 

while  it  lasted,  but  they  know  what  to 
expect  the  moment  it  is  gone.  They 
studied  the  weather  from  Blue  Hill  sum- 
mit long  before  the  observatory  was 
thought  of. 

All  trees  love  the  hill,  but  few  can  en- 
dure its  winter  rigors.  You  can  see 
where  the  hickories  and  red  cedars  have 
swarmed  up  the  steep  from  all  sides,  and 
as  you  note  how  the  scrub-oaks  compact 
themselves  you  will  see  also  the  cedars 
holding  the  rim  of  rock  as  did  that  thin 
red  line  of  Scottish  Highlanders  at  Inker- 
mann,  all  dwarfed  and  crippled  with  the 
struggle  till  they  seem  far  different  trees 
from  the  debonair  slim  and  sprightly  red 
cedars  of  the  alluvial  plain.  You  can 
fairly  see  them  clench  their  teeth  and 
hang  on. 

Yet  they  love  the  rocks  that  they  have 
gripped  for  some  hundreds  of  years,  and 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

nothing  but  death  will  part  them.  There 
are  red  cedars  growing  out  of  the  gray 
granite  near  the  southern  rim  of  Blue 
Hill  that  I  believe  were  there  when  Bar- 
tholomew Gosnold  stepped  ashore,  the 
first  Englishman  to  set  foot  on  the  soil 
of  Massachusetts.  No  such  age  belongs 
to  the  hickories  that  have  managed  to 
get  head  and  shoulders  above  the  rim  of 
the  plateau,  yet  they  too  have  lost  their 
slender  straightness.  The  cold  and  the 
summit  winds  have  pressed  them  back 
upon  themselves  till  they  are  stubby,  big- 
headed  dwarfs. 

Of  how  the  other  trees  climb  the  hill 
we  shall  learn  more  if  we  begin  at  the 
bottom,  and  we  could  have  no  better  day 
in  which  to  look  them  up  than  this,  for 
the  south  rain  has  swept  the  ground  bare 
of  all  snow  and  left  us  for  a  space  this 
temperature  of  the  Carolinas  rather  than 
92 


BARE    HILLS    IN    MIDWINTER 

that  of  Labrador,  which  is  our  usual  por- 
tion in  January.  Indeed,  from  the  sunny 
plain  which  stretches  from  the  southern 
base  of  the  rock  declivity  you  can  see 
where  even  tender  and  jocund  plants  once 
began  the  climb  most  jauntily. 

Stalwart  yellow  gerardias,  six  feet  tall 
some  of  them,  grow  in  the  rich  black 
mould  that  makes  steps  upward  through 
the  rock  jumble.  From  August  till  the 
frost  caught  them  they  scattered  sun- 
shine all  along  beneath  the  hickories  and 
chestnuts,  maples  and  white  oaks,  tipping 
it  out  of  golden  bowls  to  be  shattered 
into  the  mists  of  goldenrod  blooms  that 
followed  after.  These  gerardias,  though 
dry  and  dead,  stand  now,  and  will  stand 
despite  gales  and  snow  all  winter  long, 
boldly  lifting  brown  seed  pods  aloft,  pods 
that  grin  in  the  teeth  of  bitter  gales  and 
send  their  chaffy  seeds  floating  up  the 
93 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

slope  to  plant  the  sunshine  banner  a  little 
farther  aloft  for  next  year.  Many  cen- 
turies they  have  been  at  it,  but  few  of 
them  have  climbed  far,  yet  they  so  love 
the  hill  that  they  cling  tenaciously  to  the 
ground  they  have  gained  and  seem  to 
grow  more  vigorously  there  than  on  less 
rugged  soil. 

The  roughest  ledges  of  the  hill  jut 
boldly  to  the  southward,  showing  gray 
granite  shoulders  to  the  sun  and  making 
this  side  almost  a  sheer  rock  precipice. 
Yet  here  the  Highlander  cedars  have 
chosen  to  make  their  climb  in  battalions, 
plaiding  the  gray  surface  with  russet 
brown  and  olive  green,  clinging  tena- 
ciously by  toe-tips  where  it  would  seem  as 
if  only  air-plants  might  find  nourish- 
ment. No  other  trees  dare  the  bare 
granite  steep,  though  hickories  flank  the 
cedars  wherever  the  slopes  of  the  ridge 
94 


BARE   HILLS    IN    MIDWINTER 

have  crumbled  a  little  and  given  a  better 
foothold  of  black  soil. 

Strange  to  say,  the  purple  wood-grass 
that  surely  loves  sandy  plains  best  has 
sent  little  scouting  parties  up  with  the 
hickories,  and  here  and  there  occupies 
tiny  plateaus  among  the  ledges  well  up 
toward  the  ridge,  often  rimmed  round 
with  the  purplish  green  of  the  mountain 
cranberry.  At  the  bottom  of  the  gullies 
the  maples  began  the  climb,  but  they  did 
not  last  long.  Red  and  white  oaks  have 
won  farther  up,  but  stopped  invariably 
before  the  summit  of  the  gully  was 
reached. 

From  the  beautiful  Eliot  Memorial 
Bridge,  near  the  eastern  limits  of  the 
summit  plateau  of  Blue  Hill,  you  catch 
a  wonderful  glimpse  southeasterly  right 
down  a  narrow  ravine  to  a  wider  valley, 
and  thence  down  again  to  a  glow  of  white 
95 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

ice  which  is  Houghton's  Pond.  The  bare 
trees  no  longer  hide  one  another  and  you 
see  where  they  made  a  flank  movement 
in  force  for  the  summit,  swarming  over 
the  wider  upland  valley,  and  narrowing 
to  a  wild  charge  of  great  chestnuts  up 
the  gully.  These  chestnuts  do  not  seem 
to  stand  rooted.  They  sway  this  way 
and  that  and  seem  to  hurrah  and  wave 
flags  in  the  wild  excitement  of  a  desperate 
and  hopeful  venture.  They  are  motion- 
less, of  course,  but  they  have  all  the  sem- 
blance of  splendid  action  that  genius  has 
given  to  sculpture,  and  they  add  romance 
to  the  most  picturesque  spot  on  the  range. 
Yet  never  a  chestnut  top  is  lifted  above 
the  ridge  which  tops  the  gully.  To  it 
they  came  in  all  the  fine  enthusiasm  of  a 
well-planned  and  concerted  advance,  but 
stopped  so  suddenly  that  you  see  them  in 
splendid  action  still,  as  if  with  one  foot 
96 


BARE    HILLS    IN    MIDWINTER 

in  the  air  for  the  step  that  should  take 
them  above  the  ridge. 

The  north  wind  of  the  ages  has  stopped 
them  right  there  where  their  tops  are  just 
far  enough  above  the  level  of  the  ridge 
edge  to  be  safe  from  it.  You  see  them 
best  by  climbing  down  the  little  gully 
among  evergreen  wood  ferns  which  grow 
in  the  rich,  moist  soil  among  the  rocks, 
the  only  touches  of  green  unless  you  hap- 
pen upon  some  polypodys  seemingly  grow- 
ing out  of  the  rock  itself. 

Right  among  the  chestnuts  the  sem- 
blance changes  again  with  the  harlequin- 
like  magic  of  the  woods.  The  big  trees 
are  no  longer  fixed  in  the  attitude  of  des- 
perate charge  upon  a  rampart,  as  you  saw 
them  from  above.  Among  them  they  seem 
to  be  tipsy  bacchanals  who  have  chosen 
the  little  secluded  glen  for  a  place  of  rev- 
elry, and  are  reeling  about  it  like  clumsy 
97 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

woodsmen  in  a  big-footed  dance.  A 
chestnut  tree  standing  by  itself  on  a  plain 
is  as  stately  and  dignified  as  a  village 
patriarch.  Grouped  together  in  level, 
rich  woodland,  chestnuts  are  prim  and 
almost  lady-like.  Why  these  particular 
trees  in  the  little  glen  at  the  east  side  of 
Blue  Hill  summit  should  skip  about  in 
clumsy  riot  is  more  than  I  can  tell,  but 
they  certainly  seem  to  do  it,  and  I  am  not 
the  only  one  who  has  seen  it  and  been 
shocked  by  it. 

Right  near  by  is  a  company  of  school- 
girl beeches,  very  straight  and  slim  and 
fair-skinned  and  pale.  These  have  drawn 
together  in  a  shivering  group  and  show 
every  symptom  of  feminine  dignity,  very 
young  and  quite  outraged.  They  whisper 
and  draw  themselves  up  to  the  full  tenuity 
of  their  height  and  you  can  hear  the  dry 
snip  of  indignation  in  their  voices  long 


BARE    HILLS    IN    MIDWINTER 

before  you  reach  them.  No  doubt  they 
thought  to  have  the  glen  all  to  themselves 
for  a  proper  picnic  with  prunes  and 
pickles,  and  here  are  these  great  fellows 
thus  misbehaving!  It  is  a  shame  and  the 
park  police  should  put  a  stop  to  it.  The 
beeches  are  so  frosty  in  their  indignant 
withdrawal  that  the  icy  whispering  of  their 
dry  leaves  sounds  like  fast  falling  sleet. 
Slip  among  them  when  you  are  next  on 
the  hill,  shut  your  eyes  and  listen.  The 
day  may  be  as  sunny  and  warm  as  a 
winter  day  can  be,  but  you  will  think  you 
hear  the  snow  falling  fast  and  will  be 
sorry  you  have  not  brought  your  fur 
muffler. 

As  for  the  chestnuts,  I  suspect  they 
drank  mountain  dew  at  the  illicit  still 
just  below  the  gully.  Surely  no  springs 
should  have  a  license  to  do  business 
among  the  hilltops  of  this  granite  range. 
99 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

Yet  they  well  up  freely  among  the  lesser 
spurs  that  lie  between  Great  Blue  and 
Hancock,  and  their  moisture,  drawn  from 
cool  depths  to  little  ponds  where  the 
southern  sun  shines  in  and  the  north  and 
west  winds  are  held  back  by  granite 
ridges,  make  rallying  places  for  all  kinds 
of  wood  and  pasture  people  that  have 
yearned  for  mountain  heights,  but  could 
not  stand  the  rigors  of  the  summits. 
There  are  three  of  these  little  ponds  on 
the  heights  of  the  range  almost  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  one  another.  It  may  be 
that  the  seepage  from  surrounding  ledges 
accounts  for  their  flow  of  water,  but  I 
am  more  inclined  to  think  that  cracks  in 
the  backbone  of  the  hills  let  the  water 
flow  up  from  subterranean  depths.  The 
margins  of  two  of  them  are  the  happy 
home  of  greenbrier  which  grows  in  trop- 
ical luxuriance  all  about,  so  binding  the 
TOO 


BARE    HILLS    IN    MIDWINTER 

bushes  together  with  its  spiny  twine  that 
it  is  almost  impossible  to  pass  through 
them  to  the  water.  Button-ball  and 
high-bush  blueberry  grow  with  it  and 
hold  out  their  branches  for  its  smilax- 
like  decoration,  and  the  solemn  and  secre- 
tive witch-hazel  stalks  meditatively  about 
wherever  the  overhead  foliage  is  dense 
enough  to  make  the  mysterious  twilight 
that  it  best  loves.  It  strolls  up  the  gully 
beneath  the  shade  of  the  chestnuts  and 
you  can  but  fancy  it  smiling  sardonically 
at  their  revelry  and  the  prim  indignation 
of  the  schoolgirl  beeches.  Here  and 
there  swamp  maples,  strangely  out  of 
place  on  hilltops,  glow  gray  in  the  dusk 
as  you  stand  below  them,  or  blush  red  in 
the  clear  sun  as  you  look  at  their  branch 
tips  from  the  cliffs.  It  is  a  picturesque 
little  three-spurred  peak  lying  here  be- 
tween Great  Blue  and  Hancock  so  shel- 
101 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

tered  and  warm  in  the  midday  sun  that 
it  is  only'  by  watching  the  sky  that  you 
know  it  is  winter,  though  the  ice  is  white 
and  strong  on  the  little  ponds. 

I  think  you  can  get  the  best  view  of 
all  of  Great  Blue  Hill  from  the  summit 
of  the  lesser  hill  beyond  the  spurs  and 
ponds  and  south  of  Hancock,  just  over- 
hanging Houghton's  Pond.  There  you 
see  the  forest-clad  slope  sweep  grandly  up 
to  form  this  broad  upland  valley,  wrinkle 
a  bit  with  the  folds  where  lie  the  three 
little  ponds,  then  rise  again  most  majes- 
tically all  along  the  steep  side  of  the  hill. 
At  this  time  of  year  it  is  one  broad,  ma- 
jestic mass  of  the  warm  gray  of  bare  tree 
trunks  in  which  rock  ridges  stand  indis- 
tinct in  purer  color,  while  here  and  there 
clustering  twig  masses  purple  it.  You 
can  see  the  black  shadows  in  the  face  of 
the  cliff  where  stands  the  little  glen  in 

102 


BARE    HILLS    IN    MIDWINTER 

which  the  chestnuts  disport,  and  down 
near  the  highest  of  the  three  ponds  is  a 
beautiful  little  splash  of  white  all  flushed 
with  pink.  This  marks  the  location  of  a 
group  of  young  birches,  the  only  ones  I 
find  on  the  heights  of  the  range. 

Midday  had  passed  and  with  it  the 
genial  warmth  that  .the  south  wind  had 
brought  us.  Instead  romping  northern 
breezes  had  a  tang  in  them  and  torn 
clouds  sailed  swiftly  into  view  over  the 
summit  of  Great  Blue,  rushing  deep  blue 
shadows  across  the  warm  grays  of  the 
landscape.  The  age-old  battle  of  sun  and 
wind  was  going  on  on  every  summit  of 
the  range.  Climbing  the  southerly  slope 
of  Hancock  it  was  hard  to  believe  it  win- 
ter. You  got  either  season  on  the  summit 
plateau  according  to  the  nook  you  chose, 
but  Standing  on  the  rim  of  the  precipice, 
which  faces  north  you  had  no  doubts, 
103 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

From  your  feet  to  the  foot  of  the  hill  in 
this  direction  it  was  winter  indeed.  Yet 
here  was  the  greenest  spot  in  the  whole 
range.  Scrambling  perilously  down  the 
face  of  the  cliff  I  touched  rich  green  veg- 
etation with  either  hand  and  stood  amid 
luxuriance  at  the  bottom.  For  here  you 
are  at  the  meeting  place  of  ferns. 

Little  sunshine  reaches  the  face  of  this 
cliff  in  the  high  noon  of  a  midsummer 
day.  No  direct  ray  touches  it  all  winter 
long,  yet  in  the  chill  twilight  the  poly- 
podys  swarm  all  along  the  summit  of  the 
ridge  and  drip  and  dance  down  and 
stretch  out  their  hands  to  neighbor  ferns 
that  climb  cheerily  to  meet  them  out  of 
'the  moist  shadows  below.  These  are  the 
evergreen  wood  ferns.  In  the  rich  black 
frozen  earth  of  the  lower  woodland  they 
grow  in  profusion.  On  the  rocky  accliv- 
ity they  hold  each  coign  of  vantage  and 
104 


BARE    HILLS    IN    MIDWINTER 

splash  the  plaid  of  gray  rock  and  brown 
leaves  with  their  rich  green.  Where  cliff 
meets  rock  jumble  the  two  draw  together 
and  fraternize,  and  the  polypodys  come 
farther  off  the  cliff  than  I  have  often 
seen  them,  and  the  wood  ferns  grow  in 
slenderer  crevices  of  the  bare  rock  than 
anywhere  else  that  I  know. 

The  sun  was  gone  from  all  the  little 
ravines  on  the  way  back  from  Hancock 
to  Great  Blue,  and  the  chill  of  the  fern- 
festooned  shadow  of  the  cliff  that  I  had 
just  left  seemed  to  go  with  me  all  along. 
It  was  especially  dark  and  chill  in  the 
little  gully  and  I  reached  the  summit  of 
the  big  hill  too  late  to  find  the  sun. 
There,  where  daybreak  had  breathed  of 
spring,  nightfall  shivered  in  the  bite  of 
winter  winds.  A  million  electric  glints 
splintered  the  purple  dusk  to  northward, 
but  there  was  no  warmth  in  them  even 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

when  they  fused  into  the  glow  of  the 
great  city.  With  the  shadow  of  night  the 
cruel  grip  of  winter  had  shut  down  on 
the  hilltop  and  I  knew  again,  as  I  had 
known  in  the  golden  glow  of  the  morn- 
ing, that  it  was  midwinter.  The  dwarfed 
and  storm-toughened  shrubs  seemed  to 
crouch  a  little  closer  to  the  adamantine 
earth,  and  their  frost-stiffened  twigs,  sang 
in  the  bitter  north  wind.  I  felt  the  chill 
in  my  own  marrow  and  eagerly  tramped 
the  ringing  granite  toward  home. 


106 


SOME  JANUARY  BIRDS 


SOME  JANUARY  BIRDS 

XT  seems  to  be  our  lot  this  winter  to 
have  April  continually  smiling  up  in  the 
face  of  January.  Again  and  again  the 
north  wind  has  come  down  upon  us  and 
set  his  adamantine  face  against  all  such 
folly.  The  turf  has  become  flint;  the  ice 
has  been  eight  inches  thick  on  pond  and 
placid  stream,  and  the  very  next  morn- 
ing, maybe,  the  soft  air  has  breathed  of 
spring,  and  bluebirds  have  twittered  de- 
precatingly  as  if  glad  to  be  here,  but  alto- 
gether ashamed  to  be  found  so  out  of 
season.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  of  course, 
some  bluebirds  winter  with  us,  but  they 
don't  warble  "  cheerily  O"  in  the  teeth 
of  the  north  winds.  On  those  days  you 
must  seek  them  in  the  cuddly  seclusion 
109 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

of  dense  evergreens,  more  than  likely 
among  close-set  cedars  where  the  blue 
cedar-berries  are  still  sweet  and  plenty. 
But  we  have  had  many  days  in  this  Janu- 
ary of  1909  when  the  bluebirds  have  had 
a  right  to  feel  called  to  at  least  take  a 
hurried  glimpse  at  the  bird  boxes  or  the 
holes  in  the  old  apple  trees,  just  as  people 
take  a  flying  trip  to  the  summer  cottage 
on  a  warm  Sunday;  they  know  they 
can't  stay,  but  it  is  delightful  to  just  look 
it  over  and  plan. 

I  think  the  crows,  though  they  are 
tough  old  winter  residents,  have  some- 
thing of  the  same  impulse  to  plan  nests 
and  make  eyes  and  cooing  conversation, 
one  to  another.  To-day  I  heard,  in  the 
pine  treetops  of  a  little  pasture  wood 
where  several  pair  nest  every  year,  the 
unmistakable  note.  In  that  great  song 
of  Solomon  which  the  whole  outdoor 
no 


SOME   JANUARY    BIRDS 

world  will  chorus  in  the  full  tide  of 
spring  the  crows  have  the  bass  part,  no 
doubt,  but  they  sing  it  none  the  less  musi- 
cally. It  is  surprising  what  a  croak  can 
become,  between  lovers. 

I  saw  them  slip  away  silently  and 
shamefacedly  as  I  approached,  and  I 
knew  them  for  callow  youngsters,  high- 
school  age,  let  us  say,  to  whom  shy  love- 
making  is  never  quite  out  of  season. 
But  they  got  their  come-uppance  the 
moment  they  sailed  out  of  the  grove,  for 
their  appearance  was  greeted  with  a  wild 
and  raucous  chorus  of  crow  ha-ha-ha's. 
High  in  the  air,  flapping  round  and 
round  in  silence  above  the  pines,  a  half 
dozen  riotous  youngsters  of  their  own 
age  had  been  observing  them,  chuckling 
no  doubt  and  winking  to  one  another, 
and  now  that  the  culprits  were  driven 
out  into  the  open  where  all  could  see 
in 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

them  the  chorus  of  jeers  knew  no  bounds. 
It  was  as  unmistakable  as  the  caressing 
tone,  this  jeering  laughter.  You  had  but 
to  hear  it  to  know  very  well  what  they 
were  saying.  The  crow  language  has 
but  one  word,  which  in  type  is  caw.  But 
their  inflections  and  tone  qualities  are 
such  that  it  is  easy"  to  make  it  express 
the  whole  diatonic  scale  of  primitive 
emotion. 

Many  of  our  summer  birds  whose 
winter  range  barely  includes  us  seem  to 
be  more  than  usually  prevalent  this  win- 
ter. It  may  be  that  the  mild  season  has 
to  do  with  this,  but  it  is  equally  probable 
that  a  plenitude  of  food  is  more  directly 
responsible.  Seed-eating  birds  are  par- 
ticularly in  luck  this  year.  I  do  not 
know  of  a  winter  when  the  birch  trees 
have  fruited  so  plentifully,  nor  have  I 
noticed  so  many  flocks  of  song  sparrows 

IT2 


SOME   JANUARY    BIRDS 

as  this  year.  I  find  them  twittering  hap- 
pily along  through  the  wood,  hanging  in 
quite  unsparrow-like  attitudes  from  slen- 
der birch  twigs,  busy  robbing  the  pen- 
dant cones  of  their  tiny  seeds.  In  the 
summer  you  know  the  song  sparrow  as  a 
very  erect  bird.  He  sits  on  some  top- 
most twig  of  cedar  or  berry  bush  and 
pours  forth  quite  the  cheeriest  and  sweet- 
est home  song  of  the  pasture  land.  Or 
perchance  he  flies,  and  the  usual  short 
and  oft-repeated  refrain  seems  to  be 
broken  up  by  flutter  of  his  wings  into  a 
longer,  softer,  and  more  varied  song  that 
has  less  of  challenge  and  more  of  sweet 
content  in  it.  In  his  winter  notes,  which 
are  really  nothing  but  a  cheery  twitter- 
ing, I  always  think  I  hear  something  of 
the  mellow  singing  quality  of  this  song 
of  the  wing. 

To-day  I  saw  a  sharp-shinned  hawk, 
113 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

hunting  noiselessly, '  no  doubt  for  these 
same  sparrows.  He  flitted  among  the 
treetops  like  a  nervous  flash  of  slaty 
gray,  and  was  gone  so  quickly  that  had 
I  not  heard  the  welt  of  his  wing  tips  on 
the  resisting  air  as  he  turned  a  sharp 
corner  I  should  never  have  seen  him. 
Most  of  our  hawks,  though  well  known 
to  take  an  occasional  chicken,  are  mouse 
and  grasshopper  eaters.  The  sharp- 
shinned  is  the  real  chicken  hawk,  for  he 
eats  more  birds  than  anything  else, 
though  the  small  songsters  of  the  thicket 
form  the  greater  part  of  his  diet.  I  have 
rarely  seen  him  here  in  winter,  though 
his  summer  nest  is  common  in  the  deep 
woods,  with  its  cream-buff  eggs  heavily 
blotched  with  chocolate  brown.  Just  as 
the  plenitude  of  food  of  their  kind  kept 
the  song  sparrows  with  us  to  enjoy  the 
mild  weather,  so  I  think  the  multitude 
114 


SOME   JANUARY    BIRDS 

of  song  sparrows  and  other  succulent  tit- 
bits made  the  sharp-shinned  hawk  will- 
ing to  winter  where  he  had  summered. 

All  these  birds  which  are  wintering  as 
far  north  as  they  dare  seem  to  come  out 
and  cheer  up  in  the  April-like  days,  but 
in  those  which  are  distinctly  January 
you  may  tramp  the  woods  for  days  and 
not  see  one  of  them.  The  flicker  is  a 
rather  common  bird  with  us  the  winter 
through.  In  a  warm  January  rain  you 
will  often  surprise  him  wandering  about 
in  the  thawed  fields,  looking  for  iced 
crickets  and  half  concealed  grubs  and 
chrysalids  among  the  stubble.  Let  the 
snow  come  deep  and  the  wind  blow  out 
of  the  north  and  the  flicker  vanishes  from 
the  landscape.  It  is  as  if  he  had  gone 
into  a  hole  and  pulled  his  thirty-six  nick- 
names in  after  him,  so  completely  has 
the  flicker  disappeared.  He  is  a  strong- 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

winged  bird  and  I  have  always  been  will- 
ing to  think  that  at  such  times  he  simply 
whirled  aloft  on  the  northerly  gale  and 
never  lighted  till  he  was  a  few  hundred 
miles  to  the  south.  He  could  do  it  easily 
enough.  He  would  find  bare  ground  and 
good  feeding  in  the  tidewater  country  of 
Virginia  when  New  England  is  three 
feet  under  snow  and  the  zero  gales  are 
drifting  it  deeper  and  freezing  the  heart 
out  of  the  very  trees  in  the  wood. 

The  other  day,  though,  I  caught  one 
of  them  sitting  in  the  hollow  of  an  an- 
cient apple  tree.  There  was  an  opening 
of  some  size  facing  the  south  into  which 
the  midday  sun  shone  with  refreshing 
warmth.  Here,  sheltered  from  the  bite 
of  the  north  wind  the  flicker  had  tucked 
himself  away  and  was  enjoying  his  sunny 
nook  much  as  pigeons  do  in  just  the 
right  angle  of  the  city  cornices.  But  he 
116 


SOME   JANUARY    BIRDS 

was  better  off  than  the  pigeons  for  there 
were  fat  grubs  in  the  decaying  wood 
that  formed  his  shelter  and  he  could  use 
his  meal  ticket  without  leaving  his  lodg- 
ings. Our  woods  are  full  of  such  hos- 
telries  and  they  shelter  more  of  the  wood- 
land creatures  than  we  know  as  we  tramp 
carelessly  by. 

But  if  the  bluebirds  and  flickers  hide 
themselves  securely  through  the  coldest 
winter  days  and  the  song  sparrows  and 
even  the  crows  are  apt  to  be  scarce  and 
subdued,  as  is  certainly  the  case  in  my 
woods,  there  are  other  feathered  folk 
who  seem  to  delight  in  the  cold  and  be 
never  so  gay  as  when  the  sky  is  leaden, 
the  wind  bites,  and  the  'frost  flakes  of 
snow  squalls  let  the  sun  struggle  through 
the  upper  atmosphere  because  it  is  too 
bitter  cold  to  really  snow.  Of  these  the 
chickadees  lead.  They  seem  to  be  never 
117 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

so  merry  as  when  they  hear  the  sweet 
music  of  the  tinkle  of  cold-tense  snow 
crystals  on  the  bare  twigs. 

In  spite  of  the  soft  raiment  in  which  the 
weather  garbs  itself  to-day  it  is  only  three 
days  ago  that  the  great  organ  of  the 
woods  piped  to  the  northerly  wind  as  it 
breathed  pedal  notes  through  the  pines 
and  piped  shrill  in  the  chestnut  twigs. 
And  there  was  more  than  organ  music. 
The  white  and  red  oaks,  still  holding  fast 
to  their  brown  leaves,  gave  forth  the  rat- 
tling of  a  million  delicate  castanets,  and 
the  wind  drew  like  a  soft  bow  across  the 
finer  strings  of  the  birches  so  that  all 
among  slender  twigs  you  heard  this  fine 
tone  of  a  muted  violin  singing  a  little 
tender  song  of  joy.  For  the  trees  were 
sadly  weary  of  being  frozen  one  day  and 
thawed  the  next.  They  thought  the  real 
winter  was  at  hand  when  the  cold  would 
118 


There  are  other  feathered  folk  who  seem  to  delight  in 
the  cold 


SOME   JANUARY    BIRDS 

be  continuous  and  the  snow  deep.  All 
we  northern-bred  folk  love  the  real  winter 
and  feel  defrauded  of  our  birthright  if 
we  do  not  get  it. 

Strangest  of  all  were  the  beeches. 
They  have  held  the  lower  of  their  tan- 
pale  leaves  and  with  them  have  whispered 
of  snow  all  winter  long.  Whatever  the 
day,  you  had  but  to  stand  among  them 
with  closed  eyes  and  you  could  hear  the 
beech  word  for  sno\v  going  tick,  tick, 
tick,  all  about.  It  seemed  as  if  flakes 
must  be  falling  and  hitting  the  leaves  so 
plainly  they  spoke  it.  Now  that  the  flakes 
were  beginning  the  beeches  never  said  a 
word,  but  just  stood  mute  and  watched 
it  come  and  listened  to  the  music  of  all 
the  other  trees.  Or  perhaps  they  listened 
to  something  finer  yet.  It  was  only  in 
their  enchanted  silence  that  I  thought  I 
heard  it.  Now  and  then  the  wind  held  its 
119 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

breath  and  the  oak  leaf  castanets  ceased, 
and  then  for  a  second  I  would  be  sure  of 
it;  an  elfin  tinkle  so  crepuscular,  so  gos- 
samer fine  that  it  was  less  a  sound  than  a 
thought,  the  ringing  of  snow  crystal  on 
snow  crystal  as  the  feathery  flakes 
touched  and  separated  in  the  frost-keen 
air.  It  surely  was  there  and  the  beech 
trees  heard  it  and  stood  breathless  in 
solemn  joy  at  the  sound. 

The  chickadees  were  very  happy  that 
day.  Little  groups  of  half  a  dozen 
flipped  gaily  from  tree  to  tree,  bustling 
awkwardly  and  jovially  about  picking  up 
food  continually,  though  it  is  rarely  pos- 
sible to  see  what  they  get  as  they  glean 
from  limb  to  limb.  Winter  is  the  time 
for  sociability,  say  the  chickadees,  and 
they  welcome  to  their  number  the  red- 
breasted  nuthatches  that  have  followed 
the  season  down  from  the  Maine  woods. 

120 


SOME   JANUARY    BIRDS 

The  chickadee  in  his  cheery  endeavors  to 
take  his  own  in  the  way  of  food  where 
he  finds  it  does  some  surprising  acrobatic 
feats,  but  they  are  almost  always  clumsy 
and  you  expect  him  momentarily  to  break 
his  neck.  Not  so  the  nuthatch.  He  runs 
along  the  under  side  of  a  limb  with  his 
back  to  the  ground  as  easily  as  he  would 
run  along  the  upper  side.  He  comes 
down  the  smooth  trunk  of  a  pine  head 
down,  just  as  a  squirrel  does,  his  feet 
seeming  to  be  reversible  and  to  stick  like 
clamps  wherever  he  cares  to  put  them. 
All  the  time  his  busy  little  head  is  poking 
here  and  there  with  sinuous  agility  and 
his  slim,  pointed  bill  is  gathering  in  the 
same  invisible  food,  no  doubt,  that  the 
chickadee  is  after.  And  as  he  eats  he 
talks,  a  quaint  high-pitched,  nasal  drawl 
of  yna,  yna,  yna,  that  gets  on  your  nerves 
after  a  while  and  you  are  glad  to  see 


121 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

him  let  go  his  upside-down  hold,  turn  a 
flip-flap  in  the  air,  and  light  on  another 
tree  some  distance  away.  I  think  Stock- 
ton got  his  idea  of  negative  gravity  from 
watching  the  nuthatches.  If  I  were 
mean  enough  to  shoot  one  I  should  as 
soon  expect  to  see  him  fall  up  into  the 
sky  as  down  to  the  earth,  so  usually  re- 
gardless and  defiant  is  he  toward  the 
proper  and  accepted  force  of  gravity. 

Quite  prim  and  upright  as  compared 
with  these  shifty  wrigglers  is  the  third 
boon  companion  of  these  winter  day  ex- 
peditions, the  downy  woodpecker.  You 
are  not  so  apt  to  find  him  as  the  other 
two,  for  his  work  is  deeper  and  more 
laborious  and  they  are  likely  to  flit  flight- 
ily  away  while  he  still  drills  and  ogles. 
Yet  you  can  hear  him  much  farther  away 
than  the  others,  and  it  is  not  difficult  to 
slip  quietly  up  and  see  him  at  his  work. 

122 


SOME   JANUARY    BIRDS 

Prim  and  erect  he  stands  on  some  rotten 
stub,  his  stiff  tail-feathers  jabbing  it  to 
hold  him  steady,  his  head  now  driving  his 
nail-like  bill  with  taps  like  those  of  a  busy 
carpenter's  hammer,  anon  speeding  up  till 
it  has  almost  the  effect  of  an  electric 
buzzer.  Then  he  looks  solemnly  with  one 
eye  in  at  the  hole  that  he  has  made,  prods 
again  eagerly  and  pulls  out  a  fat  white 
grub,  gulps  it,  and  goes  hop-toading  up 
the  stub  looking  for  more  probe  possibil- 
ities. Or  perhaps  he  writes  scrawly  Ms. 
in  the  atmosphere  as  he  flits  jerkily  over 
to  the  next  tree  that  pleases  him. 

Thus  though  not  of  a  feather  these 
three  flock  together  in  the  biting  cold 
of  winter  days  and  seem  to  be  cheery 
and  courageous  if  not  exactly  contented. 
They  are  all  hole-born  and  hole-building 
birds  and  when  night  overtakes  them  they 
know  well  where  to  find  wind-proof  hol- 
123 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

low  trunks  where  they  may  snuggle, 
round  and  warm  in  their  fluffed  out 
feathers  till  dawn  calls  them  to  work 
again. 

Yet,  with  all  the  yearning  of  the  trees 
and  the  joy  of  the  woodland  creatures  in 
the  prospect  of  snow  it  ended  in  no  snow 
storm.  All  day  long  the  sun  shone  palely 
through  a  frost  fog  and  the  frost  crystals 
sprang  out  of  it  at  the  touch  of  the  icy 
wind  and  tinkled  into  snowflakes  right 
before  your  eyes.  The  wind  swept  a 
feathery  fluff  together  in  corners  but  at 
nightfall  when  the  moon  shone  through 
a  clearer  air  and  a  near-zero  temperature 
the  crystals  had  begun  to  evaporate,  and 
by  morning  hardly  a  trace  of  them  was 
left.  To-day  it  is  April-like;  to-morrow 
we  may  have  zero  weather  again  and  be- 
fore these  words  get  into  print  perhaps 
the  yearned-for  snow  will  have  come  and 
124 


SOME   JANUARY    BIRDS 

with  its  kindly  shelter  covered  the  suc- 
culent green  things  of  pasture  and  wood- 
land that  need  it  so  badly. 

It  is  wonderful,  though,  how  they 
stand  freezing  and  thawing  and  yet  re- 
main green,  firm  in  texture,  and  whole- 
some. The  birds  of  the  air  have  feathers 
which  they  can  fluff  out  and  make  into 
a  down  puff  for  a  winter  night  covering. 
Here  in  the  pine  grove  is  the  pipsissewa 
starring  the  ground  with  its  rich  green 
clumps.  It  is  as  full  of  color  and  sap, 
seemingly,  as  it  was  in  July  when  its 
fragrant  wax-like  blossoms  starred  its 
green  with  pink.  No  cell  of  the  fleshy 
texture  of  its  green  leaves  is  broken  nor 
is  there  a  tarnish  in  their  gloss.  Its  seed- 
pod  stands  dry  on  a  dry  scape  in  place 
of  its  flower,  but  that  alone  shows  the 
difference  between  summer  and  winter. 
Yet  it  stands  naked  to  the  north  wind 
125 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

protected  by  neither  feathers  nor  fur. 
Who  can  tell  me  by  what  principle  it 
remains  so?  Why  is  the  thin-leaved  py- 
rola  and  the  partridge  berry,  puny  creep- 
ing vine  that  it  is,  still  green  and  un- 
harmed by  frost  when  the  tough,  leathery 
leaves  of  the  great  oak  tree  not  far  off 
are  withered  and  brown? 

Chlorophyl,  and  cellular  structure,  and 
fibro-vascular  bundles  in  the  one  plant 
wither  and  lose  color  and  turn  brown  at 
a  touch  of  frost.  In  another  not  ten  feet 
away  they  stand  the  rigors  of  our  north- 
ern winters  and  come  out  in  the  spring, 
seemingly  unharmed  and  fit  to  carry  on 
the  internal  economy  of  the  plant's  life 
until  it  shall  produce  new  leaves  to  take 
their  places.  Then  in  the  mild  air  of 
early  summer  these  winter  darers  fade 
and  die.  Here  in  the  swamp  the  tough 
and  woody  cat-o'-nine-tails  is  brown  and 
126 


SOME   JANUARY    BIRDS 

papery  to  the  tip  of  its  six-foot  stalk, 
The  blue  flag  that  was  a  foot  high  is 
brown  and  withered  alongside  it,  yet  the 
tender  young  leaves  of  the  Ranunculus 
repens  growing  between  the  two  and  not 
having  a  tenth  of  their  strength  are  ten- 
der and  young  and  green  and  unharmed 
still.  The  first  two  died  at  a  touch  of  the 
frost.  The  buttercup  leaves  have  been 
frozen  and  thawed  a  score  of  times  with- 
out hurt. 

You  might  guess  that  the  swamp  water 
has  an  elixir  in  it  that  saves  the  life  of 
the  repens;  but  how  about  the  Ranun- 
culus bulbosus,  European  cousin  of  the 
repens?  That  grows  on  the  sandy  hill- 
side, and  even  the  -root  tips  that  extend 
below  its  little  white  bulb  have  been 
frozen  stiff  a  score  of  times  since  the 
woody  stemmed  goldenrod  beside  it 
dropped  dead,  sere  and  brown,  at  the  first 
127 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

good  freeze.  Yet  to-day  in  the  smiling 
sun  I  found  the  young  leaves  of  the  Ra- 
nunculus bulbosus  green  and  succulent 
and  unharmed  of  their  cellular  structure, 
and  so  I  am  sure  they  will  remain,  under 
the  snow  or  bare,  as  the  case  may  be 
when  the  first  yellow  bud  pushes  upward 
from  that  white  bulb  where  it  is  now  pa- 
tiently waiting  the  word.  Our  botanists 
who  study  heroically  to  find  some  minute 
variation  in  form  that  they  may  add  an- 
other Latin  name  to  their  text-books 
might  study  these  variations  in  habit  and 
result  and  tell  me  the  reason  for  them. 
I  'd  be  glad  to  buy  some  more  books  on 
botany;  but  none  that  I  have  seen  have 
so  far  within  their  pages  any  explanation 
of  this  puzzle. 


128 


WHEN  THE  SNOW  CAME 


WHEN  THE  SNOW  CAME 

1  HAVE  NT  seen  my  friend  the  cotton- 
tailed  rabbit  for  some  days.  All  the 
winter,  so  far,  he  has  frequented  his  little 
summer  camp  on  the  southern  slope  of 
the  hill,  well  up  toward  the  top,  among 
the  red  oaks.  Here  in  a  little  tangle  of 
tiny  undergrowth  and  brown  leaves,  with 
a  fallen  trunk  for  overhead  shelter,  you 
might  find  him  any  forenoon.  He  had 
backed  into  this  place  and  trampled  .and 
snuggled  till  he  had  a  round  and  cosy 
form  just  a  bit  bigger  than  himself,  where 
the  sun  might  warm  him  until  he  was 
drowsy  and  he  could  sit  in  a  brown  ball 
with  his  feet  tucked  beneath  his  fluffy  fur, 
his  ears  laid  along  his  back,  and  his  eyes 
half  closed  in  dream  contentment. 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

I  could  step  quietly  up  the  path  and 
see  him  sometimes  a  second  before  he  saw 
me,  but  only  for  a  second.  Then  his 
dream  of  succulent  bark  of  wild  apple 
trees  and  other  delicacies  of  the  winter 
woods  would  pass  with  a  single  thump  of 
his  sturdy  hind  feet  as  he  struck  the  earth 
a  half  dozen  feet  away  from  his  snug 
lodging,  and  more  thumps  and  the  bob- 
bing of  a  white  tail  would  carry  him  out 
of  sight  in  a  flash.  He  bobs  and  thumps 
just  as  a  deer  does  when  you  surprise 
him  in  the  forest,  and  flies  a  white  flag 
in  just  the  same  way.  Both  go  jerking 
away  like  sturdy  but  nervous  sprites,  and 
though  a  deer  in  the  forest  is  supposed 
to  be  the  epitome  of  grace,  I  can  never  see 
it.  The  startled  fawn  and  the  startled 
bunny  are  both  too  eager  to  get  on  to  be 
graceful. 

We  have  just  had  some  touches  of  real 
132 


Here  in  a  little  tangle  of  tiny  undergrowth  and  brown 
leaves,  with  a  fallen  trunk  for  overhead  shelter, 
you  might  find  him  any  forenoon 


WHEN    THE    SNOW    CAME 

winter  and  these  have  sent  the  cotton- 
tail to  the  seclusion  of  his  burrow,  where 
he  lacks  the  health-giving  warmth  of  the 
sun,  it  is  true,  but  where  he  is  snug  and 
comfortable  beneath  the  frost  line.  Like 
the  rabbit  most  of  the  wild  creatures  of 
the  wood  seem  to  endure  the  snow  with 
cheerful  philosophy,  but  I  am  convinced 
that  few  of  them  like  it.  It  hides  their 
food  from  them,  and  if  it  is  deep  or  a 
strong  crust  makes  its  surface  difficult  of 
penetration  its  long-continued  presence 
mean  short  rations  or  even  starvation 
and  death.  The  squirrels  have  some 
stores  within  hollow  trunks  and  these  are 
available  at  any  season,  but  much  of 
their  winter  food  is  buried  helter-skelter 
beneath  brown  leaves  and  too  deep  snow 
shuts  them  off  from  it.  The  fox  must 
range  farther  and  pounce  more  surely, 
for  the  field  mice  which  are  his  bread 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

and  butter  are  squeaking  about  their 
usual  business  in  pearly  tunnels  where 
he  may  not  reach  them.  The  woodchucks 
are  tucked  away  for  the  winter,  the 
skunks  are  dozing  fitfully  on  short  ra- 
tions, hungry  but  inert,  and  even  Brer 
Rabbit  does  not  venture  out  of  his  hole 
for  days  at  a  time  when  his  enemies, 
winter  and  rough  weather,  are  upon  him. 
Yet  if  the  furred  and  feathered  people 
of  pasture  and  woodland  have  no  occa- 
sion to  love  the  snow  it  is  far  different 
with  the  trees  and  shrubs  and  tender 
plants  of  the  out-door  world.  These  have 
yearned  for  it  with  love  and  a  faith  that 
has  rarely  lacked  fulfilment.  They  talked 
about  it  incessantly,  each  in  the  voice  of 
its  kind,  the  big  forest  oaks  with  the 
cheery  rustle  of  sturdy  burghers,  the  little 
scrub  oaks  with  the  tittle-tattle  of  small- 
natured  folk.  Let  the  wind  blow  north  or 


WHEN    THE    SNOW    CAME 

south  or  high  or  low  the  birches  sang  a 
little  silky  song  of  snow  and  the  pines 
hummed  or  roared  to  the  same  refrain. 
Then  it  came,  "  announced  by  all  the 
trumpets  of  the  sky/'  as  Emerson  says, 
but  muted  trumpets  that  blared  without 
sound.  The  eyes  saw  the  flourish  of  them, 
the  nose  mayhap  whiffed  the  rich  odor  of 
the  storm.  You  could  see  it  in  the  sky 
and  feel  the  light  touch  of  its  unwonted 
air  on  your  cheek,  but  you  could  not  say 
that  the  wind  blew  north  or  blew  south 
when  the  culmination  of  signs  made  you 
sure  of  it.  The  storm  may  bleat  along 
the  hillside  like  a  lost  lamb  or  roar  high 
above  in  the  clashings  of  the  infinite 
skies  after  it  is  well  under  way,  but  al- 
ways before  it  begins  is  this  little  breath- 
less pause  between  the  dying  of  one  wind 
and  the  birth  of  another. 

So  it  was  that  the  first  of  this  snow 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

came  to  the  woods.  In  the  hush  of  ex- 
pectation there  was  a  certain  feeling-  of 
awe.  The  trees  felt  it  as  much  as  I  did 
and  stood  as  breathless  and  expectant. 
Instead  of  clearly  defined  clouds,  the 
whole  air  seemed  to  thrill  with  the  dusky 
gray  presence  of  a  spirit  out  of  unknown 
space,  of  whose  beneficence  we  might 
hope,  but  of  whom  we  were  not  without 
dread.  And  so  the  dusk  of  the  storm 
we  hoped  for  gloomed  down  on  us  in  the 
breathless  stillness  and  tiny  flakes  slipped 
down  so  quietly  that  the  touch  of  their 
ghost  fingers  on  my  cheek  was  the  first 
that  I  knew  of  their  actual  coming.  The 
pine  boughs  high  over  my  head  caught 
these  first  flakes  and  held  them  lovingly 
and  let  them  slip  through  their  fingers 
only  after  many  caresses,  and  soon 
through  all  the  pine  wood  you  could  hear 
a  little-  sigh  that  was  a  purr  of  content- 
136 


WHEN    THE    SNOW    CAME 

ment  in  the  first  faint  breathing  of  the 
north  wind  bearing  many  flakes. 

Thus  the  snow  comes  to  the  woods. 
You  can  see  its  portent  glooming  in  the 
sky  for  hours  beforehand,  smell  it  in  the 
rich,  still  air  and  feel  its  touch  on  your 
cheek.  When  I  stepped  out  from  under 
the  cathedral  gloom  of  the  space  beneath 
the  pines,  I  found  the  air  full  of  flakes 
whirling  down  from  the  north  and  the 
field  white  with  them. 

Standing  in  the  midst  of  the  storm  in 
the  field,  you  have  a  chance  to  see  some- 
thing of  its  color,  for  after  all  falling 
snow  is  only  relatively  white.  Looking 
toward  the  dense,  dark  foliage  of  the 
pine  wood,  you  see  it  at  its  best,  especially 
across  the  wind,  for  the  contrast  is  most 
vivid  and  the  color  most  distinct.  Each 
individual  flake  is  so  distinct  and  so 
white,  from  those  near  you,  which  go 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

scurrying  earthward  as  if  in  a  great 
hurry,  to  those  of  the  distance,  which 
float  leisurely  down.  Look  again  up  the 
wind  toward  the  gray  of  the  hard-wood 
forest  and  you  shall  find  the  falling  hosts 
almost  as  gray  as  the  wood  which  they 
half  blot  out.  But  if  you  would  see  black 
snow,  you  have  but  to  lift  your  eyes  to 
the  leaden  gray  sky  out  of  which,  as  you 
see  them  from  below,  flakes  float  in  black 
blots  that  erase  themselves  only  when  they 
lie  at  your  feet.  In  open  wells  in  the 
deep  wood  you  can  see  this  still  more  defi- 
nitely as  you  look  up,  a  black  snow  fall- 
ing all  about  you,  to  be  changed  to  spot- 
less white  by  some  miracle  of  contact 
with  the  earth. 

In  the  deep  woods,  too,  you  hear  the 

cry  of  the  snow,  not  the  song  of  the  trees 

in  the  joy  of  its  coming,  but  the  voices 

of  the  flakes  themselves,  their  little  shrill 

138 


WHEN    THE    SNOW    CAME 

cries  as  they  touch  leaf  or  twig.  Tc  the 
pines  that  held  up  soft  arms  of  welcome 
and  clasp  them  close  and  will  not  let  them 
go  away  though  each  bough  is  weighted 
down,  they  whisper  a  soft  little  cooing 
word  that  is  surely  "  love  "  in  any  lan- 
guage. No  wonder  it  is  warm  under 
pine  boughs  in  a  snow-storm.  The  great 
trees  glow  with  the  happiness  of  it  and 
the  radiance  of  their  delight  filters  down 
to  you  as  you  stand  beneath.  The  flakes 
seem  to  love  the  bare,  smooth  twigs  of 
the  hard-wood  maples  less,  they  give 
them  just  a  pat  and  a  gentle  word  of 
greeting  as  they  go  by,  and  they  touch 
the  birches  almost  flippantly.  Among 
the  fine  pointed  tridents  of  the  pasture 
cedars,  however,  they  linger  somewhat 
as  they  do  among  the  pines,  though  their 
song  here  is  of  jovial  friendship  only, 
with  even  something  waggish  about  it. 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

They  linger  in  groups  among  the  cedar 
boughs  for  awhile,  but  often  start  up  in 
gentle  glee  and  shake  themselves  clear, 
leaving  the  tree  in  a  sort  of  blank  dis- 
may until  more  of  their  fellows  come  to 
take  their  places.  There  is  a  little  swish 
of  fairy  laughter  as  they  do  this,  as  of 
the  snickering  of  fat  bogles  as  they  play 
pranks  in  the  white  wilderness. 

But  it  is  over  on  the  oak  hillside  where 
the  red  and  black  oaks  still  hold  resolutely 
to  their  dried  leaves  that  the  cry  of  the 
snow  will  most  astonish  you.  It  is  not 
at  all  the  rustle  of  these  oak  leaves  in  a 
wind.  It  is  an  outcry,  an  uproar,  that 
drowns  any  other  sound  that  might  be 
in  the  wood.  It  is  impossible  to  distin- 
guish voices  or  words.  It  is  as  if  ten  thou- 
sand of  the  little  people  of  the  wood  and 
field  and  sky  had  suddenly  come  together 
in  great  excitement  over  something  and 
140 


WHEN   THE   SNOW   CAME 

were  shouting  all  up  and  down  the  gamut 
of  goblin  emotion.  After  I  have  stood 
and  listened  to  it  for  a  minute  or  two  I 
begin  to  look  at  one  shoulder  and  then  the 
other  fully  expecting  to  see  gabbling  gob- 
lins grouped  there,  yelling  to  one  another 
in  my  very  ears.  Here  with  closed  eyes 
you  may  easily  tell  the  quality  of  the 
snow  about  you  by  the  sound.  Each 
sort  of  flake  has  its  distinct  tone  which 
is  easily  recognized  through  all  the  up- 
roar. At  nightfall  of  this  first  snow  of 
ours  it  happened  that  in  the  meeting  of 
northerly  and  southerly  currents  which 
had  brought  the  storm,  the  north  wind 
lulled  and  the  south  began  to  have  its 
way  again.  This  gave  us  at  first  a  great 
downfall  of  big  flakes  that  seemed  to  blot 
out  all  the  world  in  an  atmosphere  of 
fluff.  Then,  evidently,  the  warmth  in 
the  upper  atmosphere  increased  for  the 
141 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

big  flakes  gave  way  to  a  fine  fall  of 
rounded  sleet.  Then,  indeed,  we  got  out- 
cry the  most  astonishing  in  the  oak 
wood.  The  voices  shrilled  and  fined  and 
all  crepitation  was  lost  in  a  vast  chorus 
of  a  million  peeping  frogs.  Nothing  else 
ever  sounded  like  it.  It  was  as  if  a  gob- 
lin springtime  had  burst  upon  us  in  the 
white  gloom  of  the  oak  wood  and  all 
the  hylas  in  the  world  were  piping  their 
shrillest  from  the  boughs. 

I  went  home.  I  think  it  was  time. 
People  used  to  get  among  goblins  at  dusk 
in  this  way  in  the  old  country  and  when 
they  got  back  from  goblin  land  they 
found  that  they  had  been  gone  three 
years,  and  I  did  n't  care  to  stay  away 
so  long. 

During  the  night  the  sleet  changed  to 
rain  which  froze  as  it  fell,  and  in  the 
morning  the  snow  everywhere  was  but 
142 


WHEN    THE    SNOW    CAME 

an  inch  or  two  deep  and  covered  with  an 
icy  crust  that  broke  underfoot  with  a 
great  noise  and  effectually  scared  away 
any  woodland  thing  that  you  approached, 
provided  it  had  powers  of  locomotion. 
Fox  or  crow,  partridge  or  rabbit,  must 
have  thought  that  Gulliver  was  once 
more  walking  in  among  the  Lilliputians 
with  his  very  biggest  boots  on.  Never 
were  such  thunderous  footsteps  heard  in 
my  wood,  at  least  not  since  the  last  icy 
crust.  Frozen  in  the  icy  surface  were 
the  trails  that  had  been  made  when  the 
snow  was  soft,  the  squirrel's  long,  plung- 
ing leaps  with  his  hind  feet  dropping  into 
the  hole  his  front  feet  had  made,  giving 
something  you  might  mistake  for  deer 
tracks,  except  that  they  went  back  up  the 
tree.  You  saw  where  the  crow  had 
dropped  to  earth  and  trailed  his  aristo- 
cratically long  hind  toe,  with  its  incurv- 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

ing  claw.  The  crow's  foot  is  fine  for 
grasping  a  limb,  but  it  does  not  fit  the 
ground  well.  On  the  other  hand,  the  trail 
of  the  ruffed  grouse  which  may  lie  beside 
it  shows  an  ideal  footprint  for  walking 
woodland  paths,  the  hind  toe  stubby 
nailed,  short  but  firm,  and  the  whole  print 
well  planted  and  fitting  the  earth. 

These  and  many  more  I  found  mod- 
eled in  ice,  but  the  trails  that  interested 
me  most  were  those  beneath  the  crust,  the 
long  tunnels  that  wound  here  and  there, 
intersected  and  doubled  and  made  por- 
tions of  the  fields  and  forests  for  all  the 
world  like  the  blue  veining  of  a  white 
skin.  These  were  the  trails  of  the  shaggy- 
coated,  crop-eared,  short-legged,  short- 
tailed  meadow  mouse.  This  firm  crust 
had  opened  to  him  the  opportunity  of 
safety  in  paths  that  had  been  before  dan- 
gerous in  the  extreme.  He  knew  where 
144 


WHEN    THE    SNOW    CAME 

chestnuts  had  lain  open  to  the  sky  for 
months,  but  he  dared  not  go  into  the 
open  path  to  get  them.  Fox,  cat,  skunk, 
weasel,  hawk,  owl,  crow,  all  watched  the 
paths  and  the  edges  of  the  thick  grass 
for  him.  He  must  burrow  or  die.  So  he 
does  burrow  all  the  year  through,  just 
beneath  the  surface,  in  dirt  if  he  must, 
under  light  leaves  and  brush  and  matted 
grasses  by  preference,  for  there  he  may 
go  the  more  easily  and  quickly  to  his  food. 
His  eyesight  and  hearing  are  good,  and 
he  moves  like  a  little  brown  flash  when 
he  has  to  go  into  the  open. 

If  I  wish  to  see  him  I  watch  well-worn 
footpaths  through  matted  grass  and 
leaves.  Here  his  tunnels  end  on  one  side 
of  the  path  and  begin  on  the  other  and 
he  takes  the  chance  of  crossing  this  risky 
opening  to  sun  and  sky  as  often  as  he 
feels  he  must,  but  he  wrecks  the  speed 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

limit  every  time  he  does  it.  So  quickly 
does  he  go  that  you  cannot  be  sure  what 
has  happened;  there  was  the  stirring  of  a 
leaf  on  one  side  and  a  grass  stem  on  the 
other  and  a  sudden  vanishing  touch  of 
brown  between  the  two,  but  which  way 
it  went  or  whether  it  went  at  all  is  doubt- 
ful. So,  too,  his  tunnels  come  down  and 
open  at  the  water's  edge  by  the  meadow 
brook  and  if  you  are  patient  and  have 
rare  luck  you  may  see  him  swim  across. 
Here  trout  and  mink  are  on  the  watch 
for  him.  His  numbers  need  to  be  great 
if,  with  all  his  caution  and  agility,  he  is 
going  to  survive  all  these  huntsmen,  and 
they  are  great.  He  may  breed  at  two 
months  of  age  and  have  many  litters  a 
season  and  his  progeny,  if  unchecked, 
soon  swarm.  All  the  meadows  are  full 
of  them  this  year,  but  it  is  only  when 
such  a  snow  as  we  now  have  comes  that 
146 


WHEN    THE    SNOW    CAME 

we    have    a    chance    to    see    what    they 
may  do. 

In  the  summer-time  they  stick  close  to 
their  meadows,  living  on  succulent  roots 
and  stems.  They  are  especially  fond  of 
tuberous  roots  of  the  wild  morning-glory, 
which  they  store  by  the  pound  in  their 
grass  larders  near  their  nests.  But  un- 
der the  welcome  cover  of  the  snow  they 
push  their  excursions  far  afield  and  their 
netted-veined  trails  come  even  to  your 
house  itself,  though  they  rarely  dispute 
the  wainscoting  with  the  house  mouse. 
Now  and  then  they  do,  however,  and  I 
fancy  they  have  no  trouble  in  holding 
their  own  against  their  slighter  and  more 
aristocratic  cousins.  When  they  do 
come  you  will  know  their  presence  by  the 
extraordinary  noise  of  their  gnawing. 
Once  a  stone  crusher,  no  less  by  the 
sound,  got  into  my  garret,  and  after  one 
H7 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

sleepless  night  I  set  the  biggest  trap  I 
had,  expecting  to  get  the  most  enormous 
brown  rat  that  ever  happened,  if  not 
some  new  and  more  elephantine  rodent. 
What  I  caught  was  a  well-grown  field 
mouse,  and  the  noise  passed  with  him. 

The  rain  which  produced  this  thun- 
derous and  telltale  snow  crust  brought  a 
new  and  gorgeous  growth  to  the  trees. 
From  trunk  to  topmost  twig,  each  was 
garmented  in  regal  splendor  of  crystal 
ice.  I  had  been  in  goblin  land  when  I 
fled,  at  twilight,  from  the  eerie  shrilling 
of  bogle  hylas  among  the  oak  trees.  I 
had  come  back  into  fairyland  with  the 
rising  sun.  The  demure  shrubs,  gray 
Cinderellas  of  the  ashes  of  the  year,  had 
been  touched  by  the  magic  wand  and 
were  robed  in  more  gems  than  might 
glow  in  the  wildest  dreams  of  the  most 
fortunate  princess  of  Arabian  tale. 
148 


WHEN    THE    SNOW    CAME 

Ropes  of  pearl  and  festoons  of  diamonds 
weighed  the  more  slender  almost  to  earth. 
The  soft  white  shoulders  of  the  birches 
drooped  low  in  bewildering  curtsey,  and 
to  the  fiddling  of  a  little  morning  wind 
the  ball  began  with  a  tinkling  of  gem  on 
gem,  a  stabbing  of  scintillant  azure,  so 
that  I  was  fain  to  shut  my  eyes  with  the 
splendor  of  it. 

Then  came  the  prince  himself  to  dance 
with  them,  the  morning  sun,  flashing  his 
gold  emblazonry  through  their  gems  till 
the  corruscation  drowned  the  sight  in  an 
outpouring  of  fire.  The  princesses  all 
began  to  speak  as  he  came  among  them, 
a  speech  wherein  dropped  from  their  lips 
all  jewels  and  precious  stones.  Sun- 
bursts of  diamonds  fell  from  dainty 
young  pines  and  ropes  of  pearls  slid  from 
the  coral  lips  of  slender  birches.  The 
babble  fell  all  about  their  feet  in  such 
149 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

ecstasies  of  brilliant  speech,  such  tinkling 
of  fairy  laughter  as  the  wood  had  never 
yet  seen.  Brave  revels  have  the  little 
people  of  the  forest  under  the  moon  of 
midsummer  night,  no  doubt,  but  never 
could  they  show  such  royal,  dainty  splen- 
dor as  their  own  trees  did  this  midwinter 
day  when  the  sun  shone  in  upon  them 
after  the  ice  storm. 


150 


THE  MINK'S  HUNTING 
GROUND 


THE  MINK'S  HUNTING 
GROUND 

1  WISH  I  could  have  seen  the  country 
about  the  great  spring  which  goes  by 
the  name,  locally,  of  "  Fountain  Head  " 
the  year  that  the  clock  stopped  for  the 
glaciers  hereabout.  That  year  when  the 
last  bit  of  the  ice  cap,  that  for  ages  had 
slid  down  across  southeastern  Massachu- 
setts and  built  up  its  inextricable  confu- 
sion of  sand  and  gravel  moraines,  melted 
away,  would  have  shown  a  thousand 
great  springs  like  it,  bubbling  up  all 
through  the  region,  almost  invariably 
from  the  northerly  base  of  gravelly  cliffs 
over  which  the  sun  can  hardly  peep  at 
noonday,  so  steep  they  are.  Here  they 
flow  to-day  in  the  same  mystery.  Why 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

should  these  unfailing  springs  rush  forth 
so  steadily,  be  the  weather  hot  or  cold, 
or  the  drought  never  so  long  or  so 
severe?  Why  should  their  temperature 
like  their  flow  be  changeless,  summer  or 
winter  ? 

I  sometimes  believe  that  their  waters 
filter  through  deep  caverns  from  far 
Arctic  glaciers  continually  renewed.  Per- 
haps to  have  looked  at  them  before  the 
changing  seasons  of  more  thousands  of 
years  had  clothed  the  gravel  and  sand 
with  humus,  grown  the  forests  all  about 
and  choked  the  fountains  themselves  with 
acres  of  the  muck  of  decayed  vegetation 
no  one  knows  how  deep,  would  have  been 
to  see  them  with  clearer  eyes  and  have 
been  led  to  an  answer  to  the  questions. 
Now  I  know  them  only  as  bits  of  the 
land  where  time  seems  to  have  stood 
still  fastnesses  where  dwell  the  lotus 


THE   MINK'S   HUNTING   GROUND 

eaters  of  our  New  England  woods, 
where  winter's  cold  howls  over  their 
heads,  but  does  not  descend,  and  where 
summer's  heat  rims  them  round,  but 
hardly  dares  dabble  its  toes  in  their  cool 
retreat. 

Progress  has  built  its  houses  on  the 
hills  about  them,  freight  trains  two  miles 
away  roar  so  mightily  that  the  quaggy 
depths  tremble  with  the  vibrations,  and 
you  may  sit  with  the  arethusas  in  mossy 
muck  and  hear  the  honk  of  the  auto- 
mobile mingling  with  that  of  the  wild 
geese  as  they  both  go  by  in  spring.  Yet 
the  one  makes  as  much  impression  on  the 
land  and  its  inhabitants  as  the  other.  The 
lotus  eaters  know  not  Ulysses;  if  he 
wants  them  for  his  ships  of  progress  he 
must  capture  them  by  force  and  tie  them 
beneath  the  rowers'  benches,  else  they 
return.  Even  the  temperature  of  those 
i55 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

last  days  of  the  ice  cap  seems  to  have 
got  tangled  in  the  spell  and  to  dwell  with 
the  mild-eyed  melancholy  of  the  place 
the  year  round.  In  midsummer  the  ther- 
mometer may  stand  at  120  in  the  quiver- 
ing nooks  where  the  sun  beats  down  upon 
the  sandy  plains  above;  the  waters  of 
the  fountain  head  are  ice  cold  still,  and 
give  their  temperature  to  the  brook  and 
its  borders.  In  midwinter  the  mercury 
may  register  twenty  below,  and  the  gales 
from  the  very  boreal  pole  freeze  the 
pines  on  those  same  sandy  plains  till  their 
deep  hearts  burst;  the  waters  that  flow 
from  those  mysterious  fountains  will 
have  no  skim  of  ice  on  their  surface. 

From  what  unfathomed  depths  the 
waters  draw  their  constancy  we  may 
never  know,  nor  on  what  day  may  well 
forth  with  them  some  new  form  of  life 
bred  on  the  potency  of  their  elixir.  To- 
156 


THE   MINK'S   HUNTING  GROUND 

day  is  freezing  cold  and  now  and  then 
snow-squalls  whirl  in  among  the  swamp 
maples,  eddying  in  flocks  as  the  gold- 
finches do,  yet  the  surface  of  the  biggest 
pool  where  the  waters  well  up  is  covered 
with  the  vivid  green  of  new  plant  life. 
Millions  of  tiny  boreal  creatures  swim 
free  on  the  cool  surface,  plants  reduced 
to  their  simplest  terms,  born  for  aught 
I  know  in  depths  below  like  those 

"  Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea," 

whence  they  ooze  in  the  seeping  of  the 
upward  current  to  our  shores.  No  one 
has  here  found  the  seeds  of  these  stem- 
less  pinheads  of  green  that  lie  flat  on  the 
surface  and  send  down  for  a  wee  frac- 
tion of  an  inch  their  two  or  three  tiny 
root  hairs  into  the  water. 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

No  one  can  say  they  are  apetalous  or 
monosepalous  or  sporangiferous  or  call 
them  other  hard  names  in  Latin  having 
reference  to  their  flowering  or  fruiting 
for  we  may  not  say  that  they  flower  or 
fruit  at  all.  These  minutest  Lemnas 
give  us  no  sign  of  stamin  or  spore,  of 
carpel  or  indusium,  yet  they  multiply  by 
millions  and  cover  the  surface  of  the 
spring  pools  whence  they  depart  con- 
stantly with  the  outflowing  current,  voy- 
aging gayly  down  Brobdingnagian  rapids 
to  the  sea.  The  time  of  year  when  it  is 
winter  in  the  sky  above  and  on  the  bank 
a  few  feet  up  the  hillside,  when  all  green 
life  except  that  which  grows  with  its  roots 
in  this  magic  water  from  the  deep  caves 
of  earth  is  either  killed  or  suspended, 
seems  to  be  their  time  for  growth. 

They  grow  a  little,  to  a  certain  stage 
when  perhaps  a  plant  covers  surface  to 
158 


THE   MINK'S   HUNTING   GROUND 

the  size  of  a  pinhead  and  a  half,  then 
split  and  become  independent  plants  with 
a  tiny  root  hair  apiece.  Brave  equip- 
ment this  for  facing  the  January  gales 
and  frost  of  a  northern  winter.  Yet  they 
sail  forth  from  the  home  pool  as  confi- 
dently as  liners  from  the  home  port  and 
rollick  all  along  down  the  stream,  mak- 
ing harbor  in  every  tiny  bay  and  collect- 
ing a  fleet  in  each  eddy.  What  potency 
of  perpetual  spring  they  sow  as  they  trav- 
erse all  the  ways  that  wind  in  and  about 
the  levels  below  the  fountain  head  we  do 
not  know,  any  more  than  we  know  what 
elixir  vitae  dwells  in  the  waters  on  which 
they  are  borne,  yet  something  makes  the 
region  the  lotus  land  of  creatures  of  the 
wild  where  they  linger  on  unmindful  of 
their  vanished  kindred. 

Out  of  the  rich  vegetable  mould  of  ages, 
in  the  cool,  moist  shadows  grow  the  rarer 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

New  England  orchids  in  the  summer, 
and  the  rarer  migrant  birds  of  our  sum- 
mer woods  find  asylum  here  for  their 
nests  and  young.  In  the  winter  the 
ruffed  grouse  comes  here  to  drink,  finds 
gravel  for  his  crop  always  bare  and  un- 
frozen on  the  hillside  where  the  first  seep- 
ings  of  water  come  forth,  and  no  doubt 
gets  an  agreeable  change  of  food  in  the 
succulent  green  things  of  the  shallows. 
Several  of  these  birds  cling  to  the  place, 
nor  can  I  drive  them  away  by  simply 
flushing  them.  They  circle  and  come 
back  to  the  brook  margin  or  its  immedi- 
ate neighborhood  every  time. 

Where  the  swamp  maples  have  grown 
large  on  the  bank  and  lifted  the  soil  with 
their  roots  high  enough  to  form  minia- 
ture dry  islands  the  mink  have  built  their 
burrows  and  thence  they  go  forth  to 
hunt  the  region  all  about,  but  especially 
1 60 


You  may  get  a  glimpse  of  the  weasel-like  head  of  one  lifted 
above  the  bank  as  he  sniffs  the  breeze  for  game    and 
enemies 


THE    MINK'S   HUNTING   GROUND 

the  brook  and  its  tributaries,  most  raven- 
ously. If  you  are  patient,  fortunate,  and 
the  wind  is  right  you  may  at  dusk  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  weasel-like  head  of  one 
lifted  above  the  bank  as  he  sniffs  the 
breeze  for  game  and  enemies.  In  that 
light  his  fur  will  look  black  though  it  is 
really  a  pretty  shade  of  brown,  but  you 
will  not  fail  to  see  the  white  streak  which 
runs  from  his  chin  downward.  But, 
though  you  may  not  see  the  animal  him- 
sel-f  you  cannot,  if  there  is  snow  on  the 
ground,  fail  to  see  his  slender,  aristo- 
cratic track  with  its  clutching  claws,  for 
the  mink  is  a  desperate  hunter  and  always 
hungry.  All  is  fish  that  comes  to  his  net, 
-  trout,  turtles,  toads,  snails,  bugs,  or 
anything  he  can  find  in  the  brook  that 
seems  in  the  least  edible. 

The  semi-aquatic  life  of  the  enchanted 
region  is  sadly  destructive  of  other  life, 
161 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

and  I  feel  little  pity  for  the  mink  or  the 
weasel,  sleek  and  beautiful  wild  crea- 
tures though  they  are,  if  they  in  turn  fall 
into  the  steel  jaws  which  the  trapper  sets 
for  them  in  the  narrow  passes  all  up  and 
down  the  stream.  It  is  the  common  lot 
of  the  woods  and  only  the  swiftest  and 
most  crafty  can  hope  to  escape  it.  The 
mink  devour  the  trout,  and  they,  seem- 
ingly innocent  and  beautiful  enough  to 
have  come  up,  water  sprites,  from  that  un- 
known underground  world  whence  well 
the  crystal  waters  in  which  they  live,  are 
as  greedy  and  irresponsible  in  their  diet 
as  the  mink  themselves.  Like  them,  when 
hungry  they  will  devour  the  young  of 
their  own  species  and  smack  their  lips 
over  the  feast. 

The  trout  will  eat  anything  that  looks 
to  be  alive  either  in  the  water  or  on  the 
surface.     I  often  amuse  myself  in  sum- 
162 


THE   MINK'S   HUNTING  GROUND 

mer  by  biting  small  chunks  out  of  an 
apple  and  dropping  them  in,  to  see  the 
trout  swallow  them  as  ravenously  as  if 
they  had  suddenly  become  vegetarians 
and  had  all  the  zeal  of  new  converts. 
What  the  Jamaica  ginger  preparation  of 
the  brook  world  is  I  don't  know,  unless 
it  is  watercress.  That  grows,  green  and 
peppery,  all  up  and  down  the  brook  the 
year  through.  Perhaps  the  trout  go 
from  my  green  apple  luncheon  over  to 
that  and  thus  join  the  remedy  to  the 
disease. 

One  of  the  trout  titbits  is  the  gentle 
little  caddice  worm,  grub  of  the  little 
miller-like  caddice  fly  that  flits  in  at  the 
open  window  of  a  May  night  and  lights 
on  the  table  under  the  glare  of  your  lamp. 
He  dwells  on  the  bottom  in  these  same 
pure  waters  and  he  has  much  to  do  to 
defend  himself  against  the  jaws  of  his 
163 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

nimble  hunter.  He  is  but  a  worm  that 
crawls,  so  speed  may  not  save  him.  His 
skin  is  tender  and  he  has  no  weapon  of 
defense  save  his  brain  which  one  would 
hardly  think  adequate  in  so  humble  a 
creature.  Yet  if  you  will  sit  on  the  brink 
and  watch  what  goes  on  in  the  cool 
depths  you  will  see  how  cleverly  and  in 
what  a  variety  of  ways  he  and  his  kin- 
dred, for  there  are  several  varieties,  have 
become  skilled  in  self-defense.  The  little 
fellow  has,  like  most  grubs,  the  power 
to  spin  fine  silk.  This  would  count  for 
little  though  he  spun  a  whole  cocoon,  for 
the  trout  would  swallow  him,  silken  over- 
coat and  all.  But  he  does  better  than 
that.  He  collects  bits  of  log  from  the 
bottom  and  winds  these  in  his  silken  warp 
till  he  has  knotted  himself  firmly  within 
a  log  house.  There  is  no  incentive  to  a 
trout  to  eat  twigs  from  the  bottom,  so  the 
164 


THE    MINK'S   HUNTING   GROUND 

defenseless  caddice  worm  is  passed  un- 
noticed. He  is  snugly  rolled  in  silk 
within  his  rough  house  and  moves  about 
by  cautiously  putting  out  a  leg  or  two 
and  crawling  with  the  logs  on  his  back. 
Another  variety  uses  small  pebbles  in- 
stead of  logs.  Taking  a  stone  from  bot- 
tom in  the  swift  running  water  of  a  tiny 
rapid  to-day  I  found  it  covered  with  little 
gravel  barnacles  that  clung  like  limpets 
to  the  proverbial  rock. 

I  could  pry  them  off  only  by  the  use  of 
considerable  force  and  even  when  I  did 
this  the  wee  bits  of  gravel,  carefully  fitted 
together  in  a  hemisphere,  still  remained, 
bound  in  strong  bands.  Within  the  hol- 
low was  the  little  creature  that  had  built 
the  structure,  his  silken  netting  still  hold- 
ing him  snug  within  his  rock  castle,  so 
much  brain  has  this  seemingly  blind  and 
helpless  worm  for  the  preservation  of 
165 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

himself.  But  more  than  this,  the  builder 
and  riveter  of  this  adamantine  castle  has 
other  use  for  his  silken  bands  than  to 
bind  stone  or  to  weave  himself  a  silken 
garment  against  the  damp  weather  at  the 
brook  bottom.  He  is  a  fisherman  as 
well,  and  stretched  between  two  stones 
near  by  or  perhaps  hanging  over  the  edge 
of  the  larger  stone  on  which  he  dwells  is 
his  net,  built  funnel-form  with  the  larger 
.end  toward  the  oncoming  current,  the 
smaller  closed  with  silken  netting,  all 
carefully  spread  to  catch  tiny  creatures 
slipping  down  stream  with  the  current, 
on  which  the  net-builder,  castle-dweller, 
may  feed.  These  homely,  home-building, 
home-keeping  fishermen  lead  an  humble 
and  pious  life  compared  with  that  of  the 
rakish,  cannibalistic  trout,  and  they  have 
their  reward.  Some  day,  before  the  spring 
is  very  old,  they  will  give  up  casting 
166 


THE   MINK'S   HUNTING  GROUND 

their  nets,  build  their  house  firmer,  though 
still  leaving  a  chance  for  a  circulation  of 
water,  and  fall  asleep.  They  will  awaken 
to  glide  heavenward  out  of  the  swirl  of 
the  current,  veritable  white  angels  with 
downy  wings  which  they  will  spread  and 
on  which  they  will  soar  away  to  a  new 
world  which  is  as  different  from  that  in 
which  they  bound  themselves  in  logs  or 
granite  to  escape  their  enemies  as  is  the 
old-time  orthodox  heaven  from  the  world 
in  which  the  preachers  of  it  lived. 


167 


IN  THE  WHITE  WOODS 


IN  THE  WHITE  WOODS 

1  HE  snow  came  out  of  the  north  at 
a  temperature  of  only  twenty  degrees 
above  zero,  yet,  strange  to  say,  for  some 
hours  it  came  damp  and  froze  immedi- 
ately on  every  tree-trunk  or  twig  that  it 
struck.  The  temperature  remained  the 
same  all  day  and  through  the  night,  but 
the  streak  of  soft  weather  somewhere  up 
above  which  was  responsible  for  the 
damp  snow  soon  passed  away  and  frozen 
crystals  sifted  down  that  had  in  them  no 
suspicion  of  moisture.  Yet  these  tangled 
tips  with  those  already  frozen  firmly  to 
the  trees,  and  made  a  wonderful  snow 
growth  the  whole  woodland  through. 
The  next  morning  it  hung  there  un- 
touched in  the  crystal  stillness  and  as  the 
171 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

woodland  people  waked  they  might  well 
have  rubbed  their  eyes,  for  they  had 
found  a  new  world. 

It  was  a  mystical  white  world  that  had 
crowded  in  and  mocked  the  slender  growth 
of  all  trees  and  shrubs  with  swollen  fac- 
similes in  white.  The  northerly  side  of 
tree-trunks,  large  or  small,  showed  no 
longer  gray  bark  or  brown,  rough  or 
smooth.  Instead,  fluffy  white  boles  rose 
from  the  white  ground  and  divided  into 
white  limbs,  which  separated  again  into 
mighty  twigs  of  white.  The  dark  out- 
lines of  bare  trees,  the  delicate  tracery 
of  gray  and  black  that  massed  day  be- 
fore yesterday  in  the  exquisite  dark  shades 
of  the  winter  woods,  existed  only  as  a 
faint  definition  of  the  world  of  white- 
ness which  had  descended  upon  us  in  a 
night. 

Upon  each  shrub  and  tree  had  grown 
172 


IN    THE   WHITE   WOODS 

another,  its  fellow  in  exact  reproduction 
of  line  and  curve,  only  swollen  to  forty 
times  the  size.  This  enormity  of  limb 
and  twig  shut  off  all  vistas.  Where  it 
had  been  easy  to  see  through  the  bare 
wood,  the  brush  merely  latticing  your 
view  and  softening  up  the  middle  dis- 
tance with  gray  or  pink  or  brown,  ac- 
cording to  the  growth,  now  the  gaze  was 
tangled  in  a  narrow  grotto  heavily  deco- 
rated with  buttress  and  baluster,  with 
fluting,  frieze,  and  fillet,  with  mantel, 
moulding,  mullion,  and  machicolation, 
and  beat  in  vain  against  a  solid  wall  of 
alabaster  just  beyond.  The  greater 
pines  were  pointed  cones  of  white,  each 
limb  drooping  with  the  weight  of  snow 
to  its  fellow  below,  and  the  hangings  of 
the  outer  tips  joining  to  form  a  surface 
wherein  miniature  domes,  set  strangely 
askew,  yet  massed  in  curves  of  superb 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

beauty  to  the  making  of  the  symmetrical 
whole. 

In  it  all  there  was  no  feeling  of  weight. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  it  pressed  the  smaller 
shrubs  and  trees  well  down  toward  earth. 
The  narrow  woodland  path  was  barred 
with  a  woven  portcullis  of  white  that  had 
swung  down  from  either  side.  Here  and 
there  in  the  open  the  smaller  pasture 
cedars  were  bowed  to  the  ground,  doing 
reverence  to  the  garment  of  mystic  purity 
with  which  the  earth  was  sanctified  as  if 
for  the  passing  of  the  grail.  In  a  mo- 
ment you  expected  to  see  some  Galahad 
rise  from  his  knees  with  shining  face, 
take  horse  beneath  the  marble  towers  of 
this  woodland  Camelot,  and  ride  down 
white  lanes  in  holy  quest.  In  the  deep 
wood  the  seedling  pines  broke  through 
the  drifts  like  gnomes  from  mines  of 
alabaster,  whimsical  green  faces  show- 


IN    THE   WHITE   WOODS 

ing  beneath  grotesque  caps  and  shoulder 
capes  that  were  part  of  the  whelming 
snow.  Yet  it  all  looked  as  light  and  airy 
as  any  structure  of  the  imagination, 
seeming  as  if  it  might  rise  and  float  away 
with  a  change  of  mood,  some  substance 
of  which  air  castles  are  built,  some  great 
white  dream  poised  to  drift  lightly  into 
the  realm  of  the  remembered,  as  white 
dreams  do. 

In  woodland  pathways  where  the  trees 
were  large  enough  on  either  side  so  that 
they  did  not  bend  beneath  the  snow  and 
obstruct,  all  passage  was  noiseless; 
amongst  shrubs  and  slender  saplings  it 
was  almost  impossible.  The  bent  withes 
hobbled  you,  caught  you  breast  high  and 
hurled  you  back  with  elastic  but  unyield- 
ing force,  throttled  you  and  drowned  you 
in  avalanches  of  smothering  white.  To 
attempt  to  penetrate  the  thicket  was  like 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

plunging  into  soft  drifts  where  in  the 
blinding  white  twilight  you  found  your- 
self inexplicably  held  back  by  steel-like 
but  invisible  bonds,  drifts  where  you  felt 
the  shivery  touch  of  the  cold  fingers  of 
winter  magic  changing  you  into  a  veri- 
table snow  man,  and  as  such  you  emerged. 
It  was  more  than  baptism,  it  was  total 
immersion,  you  were  initiated  into  the 
order  of  the  white  woods  and  not  even 
your  heel  was  vulnerable. 

Thus  panoplied  in  white  magic,  my 
snowshoes  making  no  sound  on  the 
fluffy  floor  of  woodland  paths,  I  felt  that 
I  might  stalk  invisible  and  unheeded  in 
the  wilderness  world.  The  fern-seed  of 
frost  fronds  had  fallen  upon  my  head  in 
fairy  grottos  built,  by  magic  in  a  night. 
These  had  not  been  there  before,  they 
would  not  be  there  to-morrow.  To- 
morrow, too,  the  magic  might  be  gone, 
176 


IN   THE   WHITE   WOODS 

but  for  to-day  I  was  to  feel  the  chill  joy 
of  it. 

A  ruffed  grouse  was  the  first  wood- 
land creature  not  to  see  me.  I  stalked 
around  a  white  corner  almost  upon  him 
and  stood  poised  while  he  continued  to 
weave  his  starry  necklaces  of  footprints 
in  festoons  about  the  butts  of  scrubby 
oaks  and  wild-cherry  shrubs.  He  too 
was  barred  from  the  denser  tangle  which 
he  might  wish  to  penetrate.  He  did  not 
seem  to  be  seeking  food.  Seemingly  there 
was  nothing  under  the  scrub  oaks  that 
he  could  get.  It  was  more  as  if,  having 
breakfasted  well,  he  now  walked  in  medi- 
tation for  a  little,  before  starting  in  on 
the  serious  business  of  the  day.  He  too 
was  wearing  his  snowshoes,  and  they 
held  him  up  in  the  soft  snow  fully  as  well 
as  mine  supported  me.  His  feet  that  had 
been  bare  in  autumn  now  had  grown 
177 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

quills  which  helped  support  his  weight  but 
did  not  take  away  from  the  clean-cut,  star- 
shaped  impression  of  the  toes.  Rather 
they  made  lesser  points  between  these 
four  greater  ones  and  added  to  the  star- 
like  appearance  of  the  tracks. 

I  knew  him  for  a  male  bird  by  the  broad 
tufts  of  glossy  black  feathers  with  which 
his  neck  was  adorned.  It  was  the  first 
week  in  February,  but  then  Saint  Valen- 
tine's day  comes  on  the  fourteenth,  and 
on  this  day,  as  all  folklore  —  which  right 
or  wrong  we  must  perforce  believe  —  in- 
forms us,  the  birds  choose  their  mates. 
My  cock  partridge  must  have  been  plan- 
ning a  love  sonnet,  weaving  rhymes  as 
he  wove  his  trail  in  rhythmic  curves  that 
coquetted  with  one  another  as  rhymes 
do.  His  head  nodded  the  rhythm  as  his 
feet  fell  in  the  proper  places.  Now  and 
then  he  bent  forward  in  his  walk  as  one 
178 


He  lifted  his  head  high,  fluffed  out  those  glossy  black  neck 
feathers  and  strutted 


IN   THE   WHITE   WOODS 

does  in  deep  meditation.  If  he  had  hands 
they  would  have  been  clasped  behind  his 
back  when  in  this  attitude,  as  his  wings 
were.  Again  he  lifted  his  head,  high, 
fluffed  out  those  glossy  black  neck  feath- 
ers and  strutted.  Here  surely  was  a  fine 
phrase  that  would  reach  the  waiting  heart 
of  that  mottled  brown  hen  that  was  now 
quietly  keeping  by  herself  in  some  se- 
cluded corner  of  the  wood.  The  thought 
threw  out  his  chest,  and  those  tail  feathers 
that  had  folded  slimly  as  he  walked  in 
pensive  meditation  spread  and  cocked 
fan-shaped.  I  half  expected  him  to  open 
his  strong,  pointed  bill  and  gobble  as  a 
turkey  does  under  similar  circumstances. 
The  demure  placing  of  star  after  star  in 
that  necklace  trail  was  broken  by  a  little 
fantastic  pas  seul,  from  which  he  dropped 
.suddenly  on  both  feet,  vaulted  into  the 
air,  and  whirred  away  down  arcades  of 
179 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

snowy  whiteness  and  vanished.  I  don't 
think  he  saw  me.  He  was  rushing  to  find 
the  lady  and  recite  that  poem  to  her  be- 
fore he  forgot  it. 

On  the  white  page  of  the  path  that  lay 
open  under  groined  arches  of  alabaster 
no  foot  had  written  a  record  for  many 
rods,  then  it  seemed  as  if  from  side  to 
side  stretched  a  highway.  Back  and 
forth  in  straight  lines  had  gone  a  crea- 
ture that  made  a  lovely  decorative  pat- 
tern of  a  trail,  a  straight  line  firmly 
drawn  as  if  with  a  stylus,  on  either  side 
at  a  distance  say  of  three-fourths  of  an 
inch  tiny  footmarks  just  opposite  each 
other,  while  alternating  with  these  and 
nearer  the  middle  line  were  fainter  and 
finer  footprints. 

Here  the  tiny  deer-mouse  had  drawn  his 
long  tail  through  the  snow,  whisking  from 
stump  to  stump  in  a  quiver  of  excitement 
180 


IN   THE   WHITE   WOODS 

lest  an  enemy  gobble  him  up,  shooting 
across  like  a  gray  shuttle  weaving  this 
exquisite  pattern  that  is  like  that  of  a 
dainty  embroidery  on  a  lady's  collar. 
How  he  can  gallop  so  regularly  and  make 
his  tail  mark  so  straight  is  more  than  I 
can  tell.  Indeed,  so  sly  he  is  and  so 
swiftly  does  he  go  that  I  have  never  seen 
him  make  it.  Beside  this  tiny  pattern 
the  marks  where  the  gray  squirrel  has 
leaped  across  are  like  those  of  an  hippo- 
potamus on  a  rampage  and  the  print  of 
my  own  snowshoe  was  as  if  there  had 
been  a  catastrophe  and  a  section  of  the 
sky  had  fallen. 

Along  with  the  tiny  mouse  tracks  were 
those  of  our  least  squirrel,  the  chip- 
munk. There  is  no  difficulty  about  see- 
ing him.  He  will  almost  come  if  you 
whistle  for  him.  If  you  will  camp  near 
his  burrow  you  may  teach  him  to  come 
181 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

and  eat  nuts  out  of  your  hand,  answer- 
ing any  prearranged  signal,  such  as 
whacking  them  together  or  chirping  to 
him. 

Even  though  you  are  a  total  stranger 
he  will  not  hesitate  to  whisk  out  of  his 
hole  under  the  brush  heap  right  in  your 
face  and  eyes,  whisking  back  again  in 
great  terror,  no  doubt,  but  immediately 
putting  out  his  whiskered  nose  to  sniff 
and  wrinkle  it  in  comical  confusion,  half 
friendly,  half  frightened.  So  I  had  but 
to  wait  a  moment  before  little  Tamias 
striatus  was  out  from  under  the  brush 
pile  and  had  flipped  over  to  a  fallen  log, 
ploughing  the  soft  snow  off  the  end  of  it 
in  a  comically  frantic  rush  to  his  hole 
there,  the  entrance  being  snowed  up.  He 
was  in  and  out  again  in  a  jiffy,  standing 
on  his  hind  legs  and  peering  over  the  log 
and  making  noses  at  me,  jumping  to  the 


He  was  in  and  out  again  in  a  jiffy 


IN   THE   WHITE   WOODS 

top  and  whirling  and  jumping  down 
again,  and  then  flashing  out  and  kicking 
up  crystals  in  a  rush  across  the  road  to 
another  hole  under  another  brush  pile, 
his  scantily  furred  half  tail  erect  and  as 
humorously  vivacious  as  everything  else 
about  him.  The  chipmunk  when  he 
thinks  he  is  going  to  be  captured  and  is 
filled  with  great  fear  —  half  of  it  being, 
I  believe,  fear  that  he  wont  be  —  is  the 
most  delightfully  comical  little  chap  that 
grows  in  the  woods.  If  he  'd  only  keep 
as  wild  as  that  after  he  is  tamed  I  'd  like 
one  for  a  pet. 

Down  in  the  open  meadow  where  the 
unfrozen  brook  ran  black  in  its  banks  of 
snow,  touched  only  here  and  there  with 
the  green  of  luxuriant  watercress,  I  found 
the  trail  of  the  crows.  Not  one  was  in 
sight  and  there  was  no  sound  from  them 
anywhere.  It  was  as  if  the  snow  had 
183 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

covered  them  under  and  they  were  unable 
to  break  through  it.  Here,  however,  was 
evidence  to  the  contrary.  Surely  they 
had  breakfasted,  and  no  doubt  well. 
They  had  marched  all  up  and  down  the 
low  banks,  and  where  a  snowy  island  lay 
in  midstream  they  had  promenaded  it 
from  one  end  to  the  other.  Here  and 
there  I  could  see  where  they  had  stepped 
into  shallow  water  and  waded.  The 
marks  of  muddy  claws  in  the  white  snow 
were  much  in  evidence  where  they  had 
jumped  out  again.  Just  as  summer 
bathers  "  tread  for  quahaugs  "  in  the  sum- 
mer shallows  south  of  the  cape,  I  could 
fancy  them  feeling  with  their  toes  for 
shell-fish  and  prodding  for  them  with  long 
bill  when  found.  But  they  had  had  a 
salad,  too,  with  breakfast.  I  could  see 
where  they  had  pulled  out  the  watercress 
all  along  and  cropped  it  down  to  the 


IN   THE   WHITE   WOODS 

larger  stems.  Even  in  winter  weather 
when  the  snow  lies  deep  the  crow  knows 
where  to  find  what  is  good  for  him. 

Where  the  path  wound  round  the  brow 
of  the  hill  and  the  birches  stand,  their 
granaries  still  full  of  manna  for  the  wan- 
dering bird,  it  seemed  again  as  if  my 
plunge  into  the  white  thicket  had  bap- 
tized me  with  invisibility.  Of  a  sudden 
the  air  was  full  of  the  sound  of  wings 
and  a  flock  of  tree  sparrows  that  must 
have  numbered  hundreds  swung  about 
my  head  and  charged  the  snow-covered 
birches.  Their  dash  shook  some  snow 
off  and  a  few  lighted,  the  others  swing- 
ing off  and  having  at  them  again.  This 
time  all  found  a  footing  and  began  to 
feed  eagerly  on  the  seeds  from  the  tiny 
cones,  scattering  the  birdlike  scales  in 
flocks  far  greater  than  their  own. 

I  had  stopped  stock-still  at  the  sound  of 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

their  wings,  and  they  took  no  more  notice 
of  me  than  if  I  had  been  a  snowed-up 
fence  post  or  a  pasture  cedar.  I  tried  to 
count  them,  but  it  was  not  easy.  They 
seemed  to  twinkle  from  twig  to  twig  like 
wavelets  in  the  sun,  and  though  their  garb 
is  sober  their  movements  dazzle.  Just  as 
I  would  get  a  group  on  a  single  tree  nicely 
tallied  they  flashed  as  one  bird  over  to 
another  tree,  and  mingling  with  their  fel- 
lows there  spoiled  the  count.  I  finally 
estimated,  rather  roughly,  that  there  were 
three  hundred  of  them,  a  half  of  a  light 
brigade  of  as  merry  fellows  as  I  wish  to 
meet.  They  twittered  jovially  and  music- 
ally among  themselves,  and  now  and  then 
one  essayed  a  little  sotto  voce  song  which 
he  never  could  finish  because  immediately 
his  mouth  was  full. 

Once   or   twice   some   inaudible   order 
seemed  to  thrill  through  the  flock  and  they 
186 


IN    THE   WHITE    WOODS 

whirled  upward  as  if  a  single  muscle 
moved  every  wing,  swung  a  short  ellipse 
and  lighted  again,  often  in  the  same  trees. 
As  they  worked  into  the  birches  almost 
over  my  very  head  I  could  see  every  mark- 
ing on  them;  the  black  mandibles,  the 
lower  yellowish  at  the  base,  the  reddish 
brown  crown  and  the  back  streaked  with 
the  same  color,  with  black,  and  a  yellowish 
buff,  the  wing  coverts  tipped  with  white 
and  the  grayish  white  breast  with  what 
looks  like  an  indistinct  dark  spot  in  the 
center.  In  a  kaleidoscopic  flock  of  three 
hundred  or  more  it  is  not  easy  to  give 
every  bird  even  a  passing  glance,  but  I 
am  quite  sure  there  were  other  than  tree 
sparrows  present.  I  seemed  to  see  birds 
without  the  faint  dark  spot  in  the  breast. 
A  few,  I  know,  had  a  distinctly  rufous  tint 
there,  and  I  fancy  swamp  sparrows,  a 
few  of  which  winter  hereabouts,  and  per- 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

haps    other   birds    for    sociability's    sake, 
were  with  my  winter  chippies. 

The  shaking  of  the  snow  from  the  trees 
and  their  gleaning  among  the  birch  cones 
had  scattered  the  little  seeds  which  they 
love  so  well  all  about  on  the  snow  and 
soon  they  followed  them.  The  surface  a 
little  before  had  been  white.  Before  the 
birds  were  ready  to  come  down  it  was 
spiced  so  liberally  with  the  seeds  and 
scales  that  they  had  shaken  down  that  it 
was  the  color  of  cinnamon.  Then  with 
one  motion  the  flock  dropped  like  autumn 
leaves  and  began  a  most  systematic  seed 
hunt  in  which  they  left  no  bit  of  the  space 
unsought.  Yet  when  they  were  gone 
you  would  hardly  find  two  tracks  that 
crossed;  they  hopped  in  winding  par- 
allels that  never  went  over  the  same 
ground  a  second  time,  leaving  figures 
much  like  the  mazes  which  schoolboys  of 
188 


IN   THE   WHITE   WOODS 

long  ago  used  to  draw  on  their  slates. 
They  came  almost  to  my  feet  and  I  was 
beginning  to  feel  that  my  fancy  of  invisi- 
bility was  very  real  after  all  when  with 
a  twitter  of  alarm  and  a  single  united 
action  they  whirred  into  the  air  and  van- 
ished over  the  treetops. 

I  turned  away  in  chagrin.  The  magic 
was  destroyed,  evidently,  and  in  turning 
I  saw  the  cause.  Just  behind  me  in  the 
snow  with  quivering  tail  and  green  eyes 
glaring  accusingly  was  the  family  cat. 
He  was  hunting  far  from  home,  but  I 
saw  contemptuous  recognition  in  his  eyes 
and  I  knew  he  was  thinking  that  here 
was  that  great,  clumsy  creature  that  was 
always  scaring  away  his  game. 


189 


THE  ROAD  TO  MUDDY  POND 


THE   ROAD  TO  MUDDY  POND 

A  WO  days  of  greedy  south  wind  had 
licked  up  the  crisp  snow  till  all  the  fields 
and  southerly  slopes  were  bare.  Then 
came  the  lull  before  the  north  wind  should 
come  back,  a  lull  in  which  you  had  but 
to  sniff  the  air  to  smell  the  coming 
spring;  its  faint  perfume  crisped  with  a 
frosty  odor  that  lured  the  senses  like  a 
flavor  of  stephanotis  frappe.  It  was  a 
day  that  tempts  a  man  to  take  staff  and 
scrip  and  climb  the  hills  due  south  to 
meet  the  romance  the  two  days'  wind  has 
brought  from  far  down  the  map,  perhaps 
from  Venezuela  and  the  highlands  that 
border  the  banks  of  Orinoco.  By  noon 
the  north  wind  will  be  driving  it  back 
again,  though  bits  of  it  will  still  be  tangled 
in  southerly  facing  corners  of  the  hills. 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

Such  a  day  is  fine  for  cedar  swamps. 
The  boggy  morasses  under  foot  will  be 
firm  with  the  winter's  ice  still,  but  the 
warm  wind  has  swept  all  things  clear  of 
snow.  Into  the  most  tangled  depths  you 
may  penetrate  with  at  least  firm  footing. 
Where  in  summer  the  treacherous  mosses 
wait  to  let  you  through  into  black  depths 
of  soft  muck  that  have  no  bottom,  you 
may  walk  in  safety  on  the  way  that  the 
winter  has  laid  for  you. 

It  is  not  a  time  of  year  to  find  new 
things,  this  season  of  mid-February,  and 
yet  I  had  hardly  faced  the  bewildering 
sun  a  mile  before,  seeking  the  cool  depths 
of  a  hemlock-clad  northern  hillside  to  rest 
my  eyes  from  the  glare,  I  found  a  yellow 
birch  all  hung  with  fluffy  tassels,  as  if 
the  wine  aroma  of  the  air  had  fooled  it 
into  foliage.  Now  the  yellow  birch  is  not 
exactly  rare  in  our  woods,  here  south- 
194 


THE    ROAD    TO    MUDDY    POND 

west  of  Boston,  but  it  is  rare  enough  to 
be  called  occasional.  Where  the  Betula 
alba  is  as  common,  almost,  as  the  grass 
under  foot,  the  Betula  lutea  may  not 
occur  once  in  a  square  mile.  I  know  it 
only  on  cold  northern  hillsides  or  in 
dense  swamps  where  cool  springs  bathe 
its  roots  all  summer  long.  There  the 
silvery  yellow,  silky  shreds  of  its  outer 
bark  mark  its  trunk  as  a  thing  of  beauty, 
winter  or  summer.  You  feel  like  stroking 
these  curls  as  if  they  were  those  of  a 
flaxen-haired  youngster  lost  in  the  deep 
woods  and  brave  but  a  bit  troubled  and 
in  need  of  comfort  from  one  who  knows. 
That  is  the  only  impression  the  yellow 
birch  had  ever  made  on  me  in  all  my 
greetings  of  it,  yet  here  it  was  wearing 
a  semblance  of  young  leaves  in  this  wine- 
sweet  February  air. 

Even  after  the  cool  depths  of  the  woods 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

had  cured  my  eyes  of  the  sun  glare  the 
illusion  remained  and  I  had  to  climb  the 
tree  and  pluck  some  of  this  foliage  before 
I  was  sure  what  it  could  be.  Surely  eyes 
and  no  eyes  have  we  all,  for,  in  all  my 
life,  I  had  never  noticed  what  happens 
in  winter  to  the  catkins  of  the  yellow 
birch.  Instead  of  hanging  rigid  like  wee 
cones,  as  do  those  of  the  white  birch, 
giving  up  seeds  and  scales  to  sprinkle  the 
snow  or  the  bare  earth  as  the  creatures 
of  the  woods  have  need  of  them,  these 
had  shed  their  fleur-de-lis  scales  and  then 
held  them  fluttering  in  the  wind,  each 
by  a  tiny  thread.  On  looking  at  them 
closely  I  saw  the  slim,  rat-tail  spindle 
sticking  out,  its  surface  file-like  with  the 
sockets  of  seed  and  scale,  but  the  effect 
of  the  whole  was  that  of  fluffy  tan-colored 
tassels  hung  along  the  twigs.  Here  and 
there  among  these  fleur-de-lis  the  round, 

196 


THE    ROAD    TO    MUDDY    POND 

flat,  wing-margined  seeds  were  still 
tangled  by  the  two  pistils  which  still  re- 
mained, seeming  like  tiny  black  roots,  or 
something  like  those  hooks  by  which 
the  tick-seed  fastens  to  you  for  a  free 
ride. 

Surely  the  wilderness  families  have 
strongly  marked  individuality.  Both  the 
white  and  yellow  birches  must  hold  their 
seeds  and  scatter  them  little  by  little  the 
whole  season  through,  that  they  may  have 
the  better  chance  to  germinate  and  con- 
tinue the  race,  and  I  can  never  see  why 
they  should  not  do  it  in  the  same  way.  But 
they  do  not.  Perhaps  this  infinite  varia- 
bility is  arranged  wisely  so  that  people 
who  blunder  about  with  half  seeing  eyes 
may  now  and  then  have  them  opened  a 
little  wider  and  so  be  pleased  and  teased 
into  blundering  on.  Another  season  I 
shall  watch  the  yellow  birches  and  find, 
197 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

if  I  can,  on  what  winter  date  their  catkins 
blossom  into  tassels. 

The  gravelly  ridges  of  the  woodland  I 
tramped  as  I  faced  the  golden  sun  again 
are  singularly  like  waves  of  the  sea. 
They  roll  here  and  rise  to  toppling  pin- 
nacles there  and  tumble  about  in  a  confu- 
sion that  seems  at  once  inextricable  and  as 
if  it  had  in  it  some  rude  but  unfathomed 
order.  Surely  as  at  sea  every  seventh 
wave  is  the  highest ;  or  is  it  the  ninth,  or 
the  third?  Just  as  at  sea,  the  horizon  is 
by  no  means  a  level  line.  Wave-strewn 
ridges  shoulder  up  into  it  and  now  and 
then  a  peak  lifts  that  is  a  cumulation  of 
waves  all  rushing  toward  a  common 
center  through  some  obscure  prompting 
of  the  surface  pulsations.  Sometimes  at 
sea  your  ship  rises  on  one  of  these  aggre- 
gations of  waves  and  you  see  yawning  in 
front  of  it  a  veritable  gulf;  or  the  ship 
198 


THE    ROAD    TO    MUDDY    POND 

slips  down  into  this  gulf  and  the  toppling 
pinnacle  whelms  it  and  the  captain  reports 
a  tidal  wave  to  the  hydrographic  office, 
if  he  is  fortunate  enough  to  reach  it.  So 
along  my  route  southward  the  terminal 
and  lateral  moraines,  drumlins,  and 
kames  rolled  and  toppled  and  leapt  up- 
ward till  they  had  swung  me  to  a  pin- 
nacled ridge  whence  I  looked  down  into  a 
stanza  from  the  Idylls  of  the  King.  Along 
a  way  like  this  once  rode  scornful  and 
petulant  Lynette,  followed  by  great- 
hearted Gareth,  newly  knighted,  on  his 
first  quest; 

"  Then,  after  one  long  slope  was  mounted,  saw 
Bowl-shaped,  through  tops  of  many  thousand 

pines 

A  gloomy-gladed  hollow  slowly  sink 
To  westward  —  in  the  deeps  whereof  a  mere, 
Round  as  the  red  eye  of  an  eagle  owl 
Under  the  half-dead  sunset  glared ;  —  " 
199 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

That  is  the  way  Tennyson  saw  it,  and 
the  counterpart  of  the  gulf,  out  of  which 
looked  the  round-eyed  mere,  lay  at  my 
feet.  Long  years  ago  some  first  settler, 
lacking  certainly  Tennyson's  outlook,  stu- 
pidly cognizant  only  of  the  worst  that 
his  prodding  pole  could  stir  up,  named 
the  wee  gem  of  a  lake  "  Muddy  Pond." 
Here  surely  was  another  man  with  eyes 
and  no  eyes.  Round  the  margin's  lip, 
summer  and  winter,  rolls  the  bronze 
green  sphagnum,  its  delicate  tips  simu- 
lating shaggy  forest  growth  of  hoary  pine 
and  fir.  Nestling  in  its  gray-gold  heart 
are  the  delicate  pink  wonder-orchids  of 
late  May,  the  callopogon  and  arethusa. 
Here  the  pitcher  plant  holds  its  purple- 
veined  cups  to  the  summer  rain  and  traps 
the  insects  that  slide  down  its  velvety  lip 
and  may  not  climb  again  against  this  same 
velvet,  become  suddenly  a  spiny  chevaux- 
200 


THE    ROAD    TO    MUDDY    POND 

de-frise.  All  about  are  set  the  wickets 
of  the  bog-hobble,  the  Nescea  verticillata, 
which  in  July  will  blossom  into  pink- 
purple  flags  —  decorations,  I  dare  say, 
of  wood-goblins  who  play  at  cricket  here 
on  the  soft  turf  of  a  midsummer-night's 
tournament. 

Of  a  summer  day  this  tiny  bowl  is  a 
mile-deep  sapphire,  holding  the  sky  in  its 
heart.  When  thunder  clouds  hang  threat- 
ening over  it,  it  is  a  black  pearl  with  eva- 
nescent gleams  of  silver  playing  in  its 
calm  depths;  and  always  the  dense  green 
of  the  swamp  cedars  that  rim  its  golden 
bog-edge  round  are  a  setting  of  Alexan- 
drite stone  such  as  they  mine  in  the  heart 
of  the  Ceylon  mountains,  decked  with 
lighter  pencilings  of  chrysoprase  and 
beryl.  And  some  man,  looking  upon  all 
this,  saw  only  the  mud  beneath  it!  Prob- 
ably he  trotted  the  bog  and  only  knew 

201 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

the  wickets  of  the  Nescca  verticillata  were 
there  because  they  tripped  him.  And  I  '11 
warrant  the  goblins,  sitting  cross-legged 
in  the  deepest  shadows  of  the  cedars,  wait- 
ing for  midnight  and  their  game,  mocked 
him  with  elfin  laughter  —  and  all  he 
heard  was  frogs. 

Looking  down  upon  it  this  brilliant 
February  day,  with  a  tiny  cloud  drawn 
across  the  sun,  it  was  a  pearl.  The  win- 
ter and  the  distance  made  the  bog  edging 
pure  gold  in  which  it  shone  with  all  the 
white  radiance  of  its  opaque,  foot-thick 
ice.  Anon  the  sun  came  out  and  what  had 
been  a  pearl  gathered  subtle  fires  of  blue 
and  red  in  its  crystalline  heart  and  flashed 
opaline  tints  back  at  me  that  changed 
again  as  I  plunged  down  the  hill  toward 
it,  and  it  lay  a  Norwegian  sunstone  shoot- 
ing forth  fire-yellow  glows  as  the  rays  of 
the  sun  caught  the  right  angle.  Nor  was 
202 


THE    ROAD    TO    MUDDY    POND 

the  ice  less  beautiful  when  I  stood  on  it. 
Here  opaqueness  wove  sprightly  patterns 
with  crystalline  purity.  The  surface  was 
smooth  under  foot  and  yet  these  patterns 
rose  and  fell  in  the  ice  itself,  and  it  was 
hard  to  believe  they  were  not  carved  in- 
taglio and  then  the  surface  iced  over  to 
a  level.  It  was  no  prettier  ice 'than  I  had 
crossed  on  the  big  pond,  but  its  setting 
brought  out  the  beauty. 

Ice  grown  old,  after  all,  is  far  more 
beautiful  than  young  ice.  Character  is 
built  into  it.  Living  has  taught  it  the 
highest  form  of  art,  which  is  to  repeat 
beauty  without  sameness.  What  designs 
might  the  makers  of  floor  coverings  win 
from  this  surface  if  they  would  but  study 
it,  and  how  trite  and  tame  in  compari- 
son seem  their  tiresome  interweaving 
of  square  and  circle  and  their  endless 
repetition ! 

203 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

This  solid  floor,  woven  by  winter  witch- 
ery, goes  on  through  the  spongy  surface 
of  the  bog,  mingling  with  it,  yet  by  some 
necromancy  never  interfering  with  its 
own  intricate  patterns  of  growth.  The 
sphagnum  fluffs  up  through  it  with  its 
delicate  fiber  unharmed.  The  pitcher 
plants  sit  jauntily  holding  their  ewers  to 
the  sky,  filled  with  ice  instead  of  water, 
to  be  sure,  but  uncracked  and  waiting  in 
rows  as  if  for  bogle  bellboys  to  rush  with 
them  to  unseen  guests.  I  found  one 
flower-scape  with  its  nodding  head  still 
persistent.  The  seed  pod  had  cracked 
along  the  sides,  but  the  umbrella-like  style 
was  still  there,  opened  and  inverted,  and 
it  had  caught  many  of  the  seeds  that 
the  pod  had  spilled  and  was  holding  them 
for  a  more  favorable  season,  without 
doubt. 

Everywhere  the  solemn  cassandra 
204 


THE    ROAD    TO    MUDDY    POND 

pushed  its  black  twigs  up  through  the 
moss  and  held  its  leathery  leaves,  brown 
and  discouraged,  drooping  yet  persistent. 
The  cassandra  always  reminds  me  of  thin, 
elderly  New  England  spinsters  who  enjoy 
poor  health.  It  is  so  homely  and  solemn; 
even  in  joyous  June  it  never  cracks  a 
smile,  but  is  just  as  lugubrious  and  sal- 
low and  barely  holds  on  to  an  unprofit- 
able life.  And  all  about,  indeed  in  many 
places  crowding  the  very  life  out  of  it, 
grow  these  brave,  virid,  white  cedars. 
You  'd  think  it  might  catch  geniality  from 
them.  Their  footing  is  as  precarious  as 
its  own.  Of  course,  now,  the  ice  has  set 
all  things  in  its  firm  grip,  but  in  summer 
there  is  little  enough  to  hold  up  the 
swamp  cedars  and  it  is  only  by  entwining 
their  roots  and  growing  them  firmly  to- 
gether in  a  mat  that  they  are  able  to  keep 
their  sprightly  uprightness.  So  closely  are 
205 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

the  young  trees  set  on  the  edge  of  their 
grove  that  it  is  difficult  to  penetrate  their 
intertwining  branches,  and  even  when 
you  have  passed  this  barrier  you  find  the 
trunks  so  close  that  often  there  is  no 
room  to  go  between  them.  Here  all 
branches  have  passed  and  the  straight 
trunks  run  upward  in  close  parallels  mak- 
ing all  their  struggle  at  the  top.  And  a 
struggle  it  has  been  indeed  for  all  that 
are  now  alive.  You  may  note  this  by  the 
bare  poles  of  those  that  have  lagged  be- 
hind a  little  in  the  fight  and  lost  the 
magic  touch  of  sunlight  on  their  tops. 
These  are  dead  and  bare,  and  their  com- 
panions have  so  immediately  taken  up 
their  slender  space  that  you  wonder  how 
the  dead  ones  ever  got  so  far  as  they 
did.  It  is  a  very  solemn  temple  under 
these  cedars.  The  living  wall  the  dead 
within  the  catacombs  and  the  sighing  of 
206 


THE    ROAD    TO    MUDDY    POND 

the  motionless  leaves  above  your  head 
still  leaves  you  in  doubt.  It  may  be  trees 
that  sorrow  for  dead  neighbors  or  gasp 
in  the  struggle  to  retain  their  own  breath- 
ing space. 

Little  obstructs  your  passage,  now  that 
the  firm  ice  is  underfoot,  unless  it  is  the 
too  close  set  tree  trunks.  Goldthread  and 
partridge  berry  creep  in  the  moss  that 
mounds  about  the  very  stumps  of  the 
cedars,  but  no  other  vine  or  shrub  seems 
to  have  the  vitality  to  grow  here,  or  if  it 
had  it  has  wisely  used  it  to  flee  to  more 
sunny  uplands.  Not  even  in  tropical 
jungles  have  I  seen  the  struggle  for  exist- 
ence so .  fierce  as  it  is  among  these  too 
closely  set  swamp  cedars.  One  in  ten 
eventually  survives  and  makes  a  market- 
able growth.  Other  things  bring  them 
to  disaster  than  the  choking  crowding 
of  their  neighbors,  however.  Here  and 
207 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

there  you  can  see  big  trees  that  lurch  in 
strange  fashion,  some  this  way  and  some 
that.  This  is  most  often  true  of  a  pine 
that  by  some  chance  has  grown  among 
them.  The  cause  is  the  uncertain  footing 
of  the  slimpsy  bog.  As  they  get  heavier 
and  taller  they  cannot  find  sufficient  an- 
chorage in  the  yielding  wallop  beneath 
their  roots,  and  sooner  or  later  a  wind 
comes  that  tips  them  over.  But  I  found 
in  places  among  the  sheltering  larger 
trees,  groups  of  young  ones,  cedars,  that 
could  have  suffered  from  no  wind,  they 
were  so  well  protected  and  walled  round 
by  their  elders.  These  were  laid  down  in 
brief  windrows  all  in  the  same  direction, 
and  I  wonder  still  what  force  accom- 
plished it.  If  it  had  been  a  tropical 
jungle  I  should  have  said  that  here  a  hip- 
popotamus wandered  up  out  of  the  depths 
and  back  again,  or  here  an  elephant  fled 
208 


THE    ROAD    TO    MUDDY    POND 

from  some  retired  statesman,  but  these 
are  not  beasts  of  our  frozen  forests. 

In  one  place  was  another  tropical  sug- 
gestion that  was  a  bit  startling.  This  was 
the  cast  skin  of  a  snake  that  must  have 
been  four  *  inches  in  diameter.  It  was 
only  the  white  bark  of  a  dead  birch  that 
had  fallen  and  rotted,  as  to  its  heart- 
wood,  all  away,  but  the  tougher  bark  re- 
mained, dangling  in  white  folds  just  as  a 
snake's  skin  does  when  cast. 

But  this  is  not  the  place  to  see  the 
swamp  cedars  at  their  best.  You  are  on 
their  gloomy  side  now.  Toward  the  vivi- 
fying sun  they  turn  every  cheerful  atom 
within  them  and  as  you  look  down  on 
them  as  the  sun  does  from  some  near  by 
southern  ridge  you  get  the  full  effect  of 
their  close-set  masses  of  living  green  and 
realize  the  enormous  virility  within  them. 
It  seems  to  me  that  our  toughest  tree 
209 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

here  in  eastern  Massachusetts  is  the  red 
cedar.  It  grows  on  storm-swept  rock 
cliffs  where  nothing  else  but  lichens  can 
seem  to  find  a  foothold.  Yet  close  be- 
hind it  I  class  this  dweller  in  the  rich, 
moist  peat  bogs.  I  find  that  many  botan- 
ists do  not  differentiate  this  tree  that  I 
call  swamp  cedar  from  the  red  cedar, 
Juniperus  virginiana.  Yet  it  is  nearer 
this  than  it  is  to  the  arbor  vitse  which  is 
the  so-called  cedar  of  the  Maine  woods. 
But  it  is  not  the  red  cedar  in  one  impor- 
tant particular.  It  does  not  have  that 
wonderful  red  fragrant  heart-wood  that 
the  red  cedar  has.  That  alone,  it  seems 
to  me,  should  give  it  a  separate  standing 
botanically.  Then  its  leaves  are  flatter 
and  more  of  the  arbor  vitae  type  than 
those  of  the  red  cedar.  And  there  you 
have  it ;  but  I  know  what  happened.  Long 
ages  ago,  when  staid  and  sober  ever- 
210 


THE    ROAD    TO    MUDDY    POND 

greens  were  more  frisky  than  they  are 
now  some  particularly  handsome  young 
arbor  vitse  lass  came  down  from  the  north 
woods  and  met  and  loved  one  of  our 
husky  red  cedars.  How  could  she  help 
it  ?  Then  there  was  a  secret  trip  to  Prov- 
idence, or  whatever  place  was  the  Gretna 
Green  of  those  days,  and*  the  elopers  set- 
tled down  in  Plymouth  County,  or  per- 
haps here  in  Norfolk.  That  would  ac- 
count for  my  white  cedar,  and  it  is  the 
only  way  I  can  do  it. 

I  was  two  miles  further  toward  the 
Plymouth  woods  and  was  broiling  a  chop 
for  my  dinner  on  the  fork  of  a  witch-hazel 
stick  over  the  lovely  clear  flame  of  dry 
white  pine  limbs,  when  I  came  across  the 
second  new  thing  of  my  experience  in  the 
winter  woods.  That  was  black  snow.  It 
was  on  the  northerly  edge  of  an  open 
meadow,  a  spot  so  tangled  with  wild  rose 

211 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

and  other  slender  shrubs  that  it  was  next 
to  impossible  to  penetrate  it.  For  some 
reason  the  south  wind  had  failed  to  carry 
off  all  the  snow  here,  and  a  thin  coating 
of  it  lay  on  the  ground.  There  was  a  bit 
of  open  water  on  the  edge  of  the  tangle, 
and  I  noticed  that  this  was  covered  with 
a  black  coating.  Going  down  to  look 
closer  I  found  that  the  snow  as  far  as  I 
could  look  into  the  meadow  was  covered 
with  this  same  surface,  making  it  fairly 
black.  It  looked  quite  like  the  soot  from 
black  coal,  but  when  I  poked  at  it  with 
my  finger  to  see  if  it  smutted  it  hopped 
nimbly  away.  The  open  pool  and  the 
snow  all  about  it  was  covered  with  tiny 
black  fleas  or  some  similar  skipping 
minute  insect.  I  was  curious  about  these 
tiny  black  creatures,  and  I  folded  many 
of  them  carefully  in  a  leaf  of  my  note 
book,  creasing  the  edges  firmly  so  that 

212 


THE    ROAD   TO   MUDDY   POND 

I  might  keep  them  tight,  and  put  them  in 
my  scrip.  I  intended  to  put  them  under  a 
microscope  and  see  how  many  legs  they 
had  for  all  this  wonderful  skipping;  but 
they  had  too  many  for  me.  When  I  got 
home  the  paper  was  blank.  They  had  all 
skipped. 


213 


AMONG  THE  MUSKRAT  LODGES 


AMONG  THE  MUSKRAT  LODGES 

I  ALWAYS  know  the  sound  of  the  east 
wind  as  it  comes  over  the  Blue  Hills  for 
the  twanging  of  the  bow  from  which 
winter  has  shot  his  Parthian  arrow.  The 
keenest  it  is  in  all  his  quiver  of  keen 
darts,  for  it  penetrates  joints  in  one's 
armor  that  no  gale  from  Arctic  barrens 
has  been  able  to  reach,  that  no  fall  of 
snow  or  of  temperature  has  weakened. 
Facing  it  to-day  and  feeling  its  barbs 
turn  in  the  marrow  of  my  breastbone  as 
I  crossed  Ponkapoag  Pond  I  began  to 
wonder  how  it  fared  with  my  friends  the 
muskrats  who  were  wintering  in  the  very 
teeth  of  it  over  on  the  northwest  shore. 
Atid  so  I  turned  my  shoulder  to  the  blow 
and  my  face  to  the  bog  where  tepees  in  a 
217 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

long  line  spire  conically  out  of  the  brown 
grasses  on  the  bog  edge,  where  the  pick- 
erel weed  flaunted  blue  banners  all  sum- 
mer long. 

The  thermometer  marked  a  tempera- 
ture of  but  a  few  degrees  below  freezing, 
but  it  was  the  coldest  day  of  the  winter. 
The  bite  of  the  wind  off  Hudson's  Bay  is 
as  nothing  to  the  chill  which  the  Arctic 
sea-water  folds  in  its  unfrozen  heart  as 
it  sweeps  from  polar  depths  down  the 
west  coast  of  Greenland,  along  the  Lab- 
rador shore,  round  Newfoundland  and 
down  again,  shouldering  into  Massachu- 
setts Bay;  the  reserve  corps  of  the  win- 
ter's assault,  the  Old  Guard  plunging  des- 
perately to  its  Waterloo  in  the  face  of 
all-conquering  spring.  This  chill  the 
east  wind  had  caught  up  from  the  green 
depths  of  the  surges  he  tossed,  and  made 
it  the  poison  of  the  points  which  he  drove 
218 


AMONG   THE   MUSKRAT   LODGES 

desperately  home.  Face  this  wind  for  a 
day  and  you  shall  feel  the  venom  working 
long  after  you  have  sought  shelter,  nor 
shall  even  the  cheer  of  a  big  open  fire 
drive  it  easily  from  your  bones. 

Yet  you  may  draw  from  the  chill  this 
cheer,  if  you  will,  that  no  longer  is  the 
worst  yet  to  come;  it  is  here  and  soon 
the  prospect  must  mend.  It  seems  odd 
to  think  that  some  day  next  July  we  shall 
sniiT  this  frigidity  drawn  from  the  depths 
of  the  boreal  current,  borne  on  the  wings 
of  the  east  wind,  and  revel  in  the  intoxi- 
cating ozone  with  which  it  soothes  our 
heat-fevered  nostrils. 

Over  on  the  bog  edge  are  twenty- 
seven  lodges,  built  of  bog  turf  and  roots, 
dead  grass  and  rushes,  almost  any  rub- 
bish in  fact  which  Mussascus,  as  Cap- 
tain John  Smith  called  him,  has  been  able 
to  get  in  the  neighborhood.  Each  has  a 
219 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

foundation  of  some  sort;  one  a  stump 
submerged  in  the  muck,  another  a  rude 
framework  of  alder  sticks  which  the 
muskrat  cuts  with  his  strong,  chisel-like 
teeth  and  brings  in  his  mouth  as  a  beaver 
would;  others  variously  upheld,  but  all 
so  placed  that  the  entrance  may  be  be- 
neath the  water  and  beneath  the  ice  also, 
however  thick  it  may  freeze. 

Little  does  the  muskrat  care  for  my 
marrow-piercing  east  wind.  I  '11  wager 
that  he  never  knows  it  blows,  for  rarely 
indeed  at  this  time  of  year  does  he  put 
his  nose  out  where  he  might  feel  it.  His 
stairway  leads  from  the  under-water 
entrance  to  a  cosy  and  comfortable  nest 
lined  with  soft  grass  where  he  and  his 
fellows  cuddle.  The  mud-smeared,  water- 
soaked  material  of  their  walls  is  frozen 
to  adamant.  It  is  porous  enough  in  spots 
to  give  them  air  for  breathing  but  does 
220 


AMONG  THE   MUSKRAT   LODGES 

not  let  the  cold  wind  enter.  It  is  as  snug 
and  safe  a  place  as  any  one  could  devise. 
An  enemy  must  break  through  from 
without  and  long  before  he  can  smash 
the  frozen  walls  Mussascus  has  slipped 
into  the  water  and  gone  his  way  beneath 
the  ice,  first  to  another  tepee,  or  if  driven 
from  that  on  again  to  his  burrows  in  the 
hard  bank  a  thousand  feet  away. 

Bending  my  ear  close  to  the  nearest 
lodge  I  rapped  sharply  on  the  rough  wall 
and  listened.  There  was  no  sound. 
Again  I  rapped  and  my  knock  was  all 
that  disturbed  the  silence  within.  Out- 
side the  frozen  marsh  grasses  sawed 
silkily  one  on  another  and  the  frost  crys- 
tals that  the  wind  was  sweeping  from  the 
thick  white  ice  shrilled  infinitesimally  as 
they  slid  by,  but  no  sound  came  from  the 
lodge.  Evidently  no  one  was  at  home. 
At  the  next  lodge  it  was  different.  The, 

221 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

rap  was  succeeded  by  a  second  of  breath- 
less silence,  then  there  was  the  sound  of 
scrambling,  and  as  I  watched  the  dark 
clear  ice  that  always  obtains  just  about 
the  lodge  I  saw  three  silver  gleams  shoot 
athwart  the  clear  space  and  vanish  under 
the  opaque  ice  just  beyond.  Three  Mus- 
sascuses  had  fled,  their  dense,  dark,  close- 
set  under  fur  holding  the  air  entangled 
in  its  fine  fuzz  which  is  impervious  to 
water,  thus  accounting  for  the  gleam. 

Like  the  fur-seal  the  muskrat  has  an 
outer  coat  of  rather  coarse  hair  and  an 
undervest  of  much  finer,  more  silky  tex- 
ture. This  provides  an  air  space  which 
enfolds  him,  however  long  he  remains 
under  water,  and  its  chill  may  not  reach 
him  nor  can  the  moisture.  Only  the  soles 
of  his  feet  and  the  very  tip  of  his  muffle, 
the  nose-pad,  are  bare.  His  ears  are  set 
down  within  his  fur,  and  when  he  is  be- 
222 


AMONG   THE   MUSKRAT   LODGES 

neath  the  surface  each  holds  an  earful  of 
air  that  catches  under-water  sounds  and 
transmits  them  as  faithfully  as  it  does  the 
sounds  of  the  upper  world.  He  swims 
by  vigorous  "  dog-paddle "  motions  of 
his  hind  feet,  which  are  large  and  fur- 
nished with  stiff,  coarse  hair  that  answers 
for  a  webbing  between  the  toes.  More- 
over, these  feet  are  "  hung-in  "  a  little  in 
a  peculiar  club-footed  way  that  makes  his 
gait  on  land  an  awkward  shamble,  but 
which  allows  them  to  "  feather "  as  an 
oar  does  in  swimming,  thus  giving  his 
propulsive  apparatus  the  greatest  possible 
efficiency. 

People  who  know  Mussascus  best  differ 
about  the  use  of  his  tail.  I  have  never 
seen  him  use  it  except  as  a  very  efficient 
steering  oar,  but  I  have  been  told  that  he 
sculls  with  it  as  a  fish  does  with  his,  and 
thus  helps  his  progress.  It  is  admirably 
223 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

adapted  for  either  purpose,  but  it  is  a  tail 
that  does  not  look  as  if  it  belonged  to  any 
fur-bearing  animal.  It  is  almost  as  long 
as  the  muskrat  himself  and  has  never  a 
hair  from  butt  to  tip.  Instead,  it  is  fur- 
nished with  small  stiff  scales  which  might 
just  as  well  be  those  of  a  snake.  It  is  flat- 
tened sidewise  and  trimmed  down  to  al- 
most a  knife-edge  at  top  and  bottom,  and 
the  muskrat  uses  it  most  efficiently. 

But  however  well  adapted  their  feet 
and  tails  are  for  swimming  and  their  fur 
for  keeping  them  warm  and  dry  beneath 
•  the  ice,  it  would  seem  as  if  the  three  little 
soft-furred,  brown  chaps  that  I  had  just 
driven  from  their  snug  wigwam  had  a 
far  greater  problem  to  solve  than  that  of 
warmth  or  locomotion.  How  were  they 
to  breathe  in  the  water  beneath  this  foot- 
thick  coating  where  was  no  hole  to  give 
them  an  outlet  to  the  air?  In  a  few 
224 


AMONG   THE   MUSKRAT   LODGES 

minutes  their  lungs  must  have  a  new 
supply  of  oxygen,  and  if  let  alone  they 
are  able  to  get  it  in  a  rather  curious 
fashion.  Coming  up  beneath  the  ice,  they 
expel  the  vitiated  air,  making  a  bubble 
which  in  a  short  time  absorbs  new  oxy- 
gen from  the  ice  and  water;  then  they 
re-breathe  it  and  go  on. 

In  the  early  autumn  when  the  ice  is 
thin  and  clear  you  may  capture  Mussas- 
cus  by  first  driving  him  from  his  lodge, 
then  following  him  as  he  swims,  a  sil- 
very streak  beneath  the  ice,  till  he  makes 
that  telltale  bubble.  Then  go  up  and  hit 
the  ice  sharply  over  the  bubble  and  you 
drive  the  little  fellow  away  from  his  own 
breath  and  drown  him.  But  you  would 
be  unable  to  play  any  such  mean  trick  as 
this  along  the  Ponkapoag  bog  edge  now, 
for  the  muskrats  are  abundantly  provided 
for,  and  I  believe  they  did  it  themselves. 
225 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

Here  and  there  along  by  their  tepees  you 
find  open  breathing  holes.  These,  I  am 
quite  sure,  the  little  fellows  keep  open, 
just  to  be  able  now  and  then  to  take  a 
glimpse  at  the  upper  world,  though  they 
do  not  need  them  otherwise.  But  that  is 
not  the  provision  which  I  mean.  As  far 
along  the  bog  front  as  the  tepees  go  there 
are  everywhere  big  white  air-bubbles. 
From  the  tepees  out  into  the  pond  they 
show  in  many  places  for  a  distance  of  a 
hundred  feet  or  more,  and  then  cease. 
Nowhere  else  in  the  pond  are  these 
bubbles  and  I  believe  the  muskrats  have 
stored  them  here  in  their  various  excur- 
sions as  relays,  providing  against  just  such 
folk  as  myself,  who  might  come  along, 
force  them  from  their  homes,  and  drown 
them  beneath  the  thick  ice  covering. 
Thus  provided,  the  three  that  I  had  driven 
out  would  have  no  trouble  in  reaching 
226 


AMONG  THE   MUSKRAt   LODGES 

the  most  distant  tepee  or  the  higher 
bank  beyond  the  bog  edge,  where  are 
their  summer  burrows. 

Nor  need  they  trouble  their  minds  the 
winter  through  about  provisions.  Some 
curious  skater  or  perhaps  a  would-be  fur 
dealer  has  been  along  at  one  end  of  the 
bog  and  broken  into  a  number  of  houses 
and  scattered  others  all  to  bits.  A  long 
thaw  enabled  him  to  do  this,  else  the 
winter  had  kept  them  so  safe  from  van- 
dals that  only  a  heavy  ax  or  pick  would 
give  entrance.  Among  the  ruins  that 
this  human  earthquake  caused  are  fat 
roots  of  the  yellow  pond  lily,  the  spatter 
dock,  as  long  as  my  arm.  It  looks  as  if 
some  of  the  houses  were  half  built  of 
these  petrified  reptiles  broken  in  chunks, 
scaly  looking  remnants  of  a  previous 
geological  age.  These  are  the  muskrat's 
bread,  or  perhaps  we  might  better  say  his 
227 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

potatoes.  Rough  and  forbidding  as  they 
look  they  are  white  and  crisp  inside,  and 
though  their  taste  is  as  flat  and  insipid 
as  that  of  a  raw  potato  to  you  and  me 
the  muskrat  votes  them  delicious  and  sat- 
isfying. The  bottom  of  the  pond  is  stored 
with  them  and  he  has  but  to  dive  and  dig, 
and  he  even  buttresses  his  winter  wig- 
wams with  them. 

If  he  wants  something  a  little  more 
spicy  there  are  spots  in  the  bog,  now  safe 
under  water  and  ice  but  within  easy 
reach  of  a  submarine  like  himself,  where 
grow  the  pungent  roots  of  the  calamus, 
the  sweet  flag,  of  which  he  is  very  fond 
and  which,  when  dried  and  sugared,  most 
humans  like  to  nibble.  Stored  all  along 
the  shallows  are  his  shell-fish,  the  fresh 
water  mussels  whose  thin  shells  he  can 
easily  tear  open  and  whose  white  flesh  he 
finds  exceedingly  toothsome.  These,  too, 
228 


AMONG  THE   MUSKRAT   LODGES 

are  as  available  in  winter  as  in  summer. 
Indeed  some  of  his  houses  are  built  in  the 
autumn,  not  so  much  for  winter  homes 
as  restaurants  where  he  may  dine  in  seclu- 
sion on  these  very  mollusks.  Quite  a  dis- 
tance from  the  bog,  over  in  a  shallow  part 
of  the  pond,  is  a  bed  of  these  mussels  with 
a  flat-topped  rock  near  by  rising  above 
the  surface.  Here  last  fall  the  muskrats 
built  a  lodge,  right  on  the  rock,  which 
they  used  for  this  purpose.  The  first 
skaters  kicked  this  lodge  to  pieces.  It 
was  fairly  crammed  with  the  empty  shells 
of  many  a  rare  feast,  showing  that  here 
Mussascus  had  undoubtedly  entertained 
his  friends  in  true  Bohemian  style. 

So,  while  I  shivered  in  the  searching 
east  wind  on  the  sky  side  of  the  ice,  the 
muskrats  were  well  fed  and  comfortable 
in  a  region  of  even  higher  temperature, 
a  country  where  the  spring,  which  we  say 
229 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

comes  up  out  of  the  south,  but  the  muskrat 
knows  wells  up  out  of  the  ground  be- 
neath, is  already  at  his  door.  Its  warmth 
is  in  the  bog  below  and  has  softened  and 
even  melted  the  ice  all  about  the  tepees. 
The  ice  on  the  pond  is  a  foot  thick  still, 
but  the  water  beneath  it  is  thrilled  with 
this  same  potency  and  you  have  but  to 
stir  it  to  sniff  its  fragrance.  Below  the 
pond  the  brook  which  is  its  outlet  splashes 
over  the  long-abandoned  sills  of  what  was 
a  gristmill  dam  in  the  days  of  the  early 
settlers.  Here  in  spite  of  the  keen  lances 
of  the  wind  and  its  roar  in  the  frozen 
maples  overhead,  I  heard  the  soft  tones 
of  the  coming  season  in  every  babble  of 
the  brook.  All  the  air  was  full  of  a  fresh, 
inviting  fragrance  which  the  water  gives 
off  as  it  flows.  All  the  pond  is  full  of  it 
beneath  the  ice  already,  and  the  muskrat 
breathes  it  in  his  every  excursion  under 
230 


AMONG   THE   MUSKRAT   LODGES 

the  crystal  depths.  Soon  he  will  abandon 
the  winter  houses,  which  as  soon  as  the 
frost  leaves  them  will  sag  and  flatten  and 
begin  to  sink  into  the  bog  itself,  building 
its  outer  edge  a  little  firmer  here  and 
there,  and  thus  helping  it  in  its  yearly  en- 
croachment on  the  pond  itself.  As  the 
ages  have  gone  by,  Mussascus  has  been  a 
pretty  potent  factor  in  this  encroachment. 
As  the  beaver  has  been  a  maker  of 
ponds  and  a  conserver  of  streams,  hold- 
ing and  delaying  their  waters  with  his 
dams,  so  the  muskrat  has  helped  in  the 
making  of  meadows  and  the  sanding 
and  grading  of  pond  edges.  The  first  is 
done  by  his  winter  nests,  the  second  by 
his  summer  burrows  which  start  under 
water  at  the  pond  edge  and  slant  along 
near  the  surface  for  thirty  to  fifty  feet. 
Many  cubic  yards  of  sand  and  loam  are 
dug  from  these  burrows  and  spread  along 
231 


WILDWOOD   WAYS 

in  the  shallows.  His  river  habits  are 
strong  upon  him  in  this  work,  for  he  usu- 
ally makes  a  delta  of  entrances,  three  or 
four  leading  up  into  the  same  passage 
which  often  has  a  wee  exit  above  water, 
near  the  edge.  Here  if  you  are  particu- 
larly fortunate  you  may  in  midsummer 
see  his  young  poke  their  noses  up,  longing 
for  a  peek  at  the  great  world,  before  they 
are  big  enough  to  swim  out  into  it.  Here, 
too,  weasel  and  mink  sometimes  find  en- 
trance and  devour  his  family.  But  there 
are  three  litters  a  year,  as  a  rule,  so  the 
occasional  weasel  serves  to  keep  down  a 
too  great  increase  in  the  population. 

His  greatest  enemy,  however,  is  man, 
who  so  pollutes  the  streams  with  sewage 
and  factory  refuse  that  no  self-respecting 
muskrat  can  live  in  many  of  them,  and 
who  hunts  him  for  his  fur  for  the  making 
of  automobile  coats.  Yet  in  the  case  of 
232 


AMONG  THE   MUSKRAT  LODGES 

my  Ponkapoag  Pond  friends  man's  hand 
for  once  is  for  him  rather  than  against. 
His  home  there  is  now  a  part  of  the  park 
system  and  he  may  be  shot  or  trapped 
only  under  penalty  of  the  law.  This  has 
been  so  for  some  years  now  and  I  think 
it  explains  the  numbers  of  the  winter 
lodges  which  are  this  year  greater  than 
ever  before. 


233 


THICK  ICE 


THICK  ICE 

IN  the  winter  the  pond  finds  a  voice. 
The  great  sheet  of  foot-thick,  white  ice 
is  like  a  gigantic  disk  in  a  telephone,  re- 
ceiver and  transmitter  in  one,  sending 
and  receiving  messages  between  the  earth 
and  space.  Probably  these  messages  pass 
equally  in  summer,  only  the  instruments 
are  so  tuned  then  that  our  finite  ears  may 
not  perceive  them;  for  the  surface  of  the 
pond  has  its  water  disk  in  the  summer 
no  less  than  in  winter,  but  an  exquisitely 
thinner  and  finer  one. 

Taking  to-day  my  first  canoe  trip  of  the 
year  about  the  edges  where  the  impera- 
tive orders  of  the  coming  spring  have 
opened  clear  water  for  a  half-hundred  feet, 
I  could  not  help  noticing  this  thinner  disk. 
237 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

The  west  wind  blew  keen,  but  lightly,  and 
had  crowded  the  ice  over  toward  the  east- 
ern shore,  leaving  me  free  northwest  pas- 
sage in  sunny  shallows  where  no  ripple 
disturbed.  Every  dip  of  the  paddle  threw 
drops  of  water  on  the  surface,  drops  that 
shone  like  diamonds  in  the  warm  sun,  but 
sought,  always  for  a  time  in  vain,  to  re- 
unite with  their  kindred  water.  This  in- 
visible barrier  held  them  up  and  they 
rolled  about  without  wetting  it,  just  as 
they  might  have  on  a  glossy  disk  of 
metal,  though  they  finally  vanished  into 
it.  Like  the  drops  the  disk  was  made  up 
of  molecules  of  water,  but  the  fact  that 
these  rested  on  the  very  summit  of  their 
fellows  and  between  them  and  the  air 
seemed  to  change  their  character  and  give 
them  a  property  of  impenetrability. 

It  is  this  disk  of  water  on  water  that 
holds  up  the  summer  water  striders,  lean 
238 


THICK    ICE 

and  ferocious-looking  insects  that  skip 
about  on  the  surface,  the  tips  of  their  long 
legs  denting  it  but  never  being  wet.  There 
is  a  big  black  land  spider  that  lives  on  the 
water's  edge  summers,  who  is  husky  and 
heavy,  yet  will  run  along  the  surface, 
galloping  and  jumping  just  as  if  on  a  dry 
and  sandy  beach  and  neither  falling  in 
nor  wetting  his  feet. 

When  I  see  the  silver  dimples  that  the 
water  strider's  feet  make  in  this  elastic 
surface  and  note  this  land  spider  gallop- 
ing across  a  cove,  the  disk  of  the  pond's 
summer  telephone  receiver  and  transmit- 
ter becomes  very  real  to  my  eyes.  Very 
likely  the  under-water  people,  mullet  and 
bream  and  perch,  read  these  messages  in 
summer  and  know  in  advance  what  the 
weather  is  going  to  be.  If  not,  what  is 
it  that  stops  their  feeding  and  disturbs 
them  before  any  rumble  of  the  approach- 
239 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

ing  thunderstorm  has  reached  my  ears? 
Perhaps  in  this  way  they  learn  of  other 
universe  happenings,  if  such  are  the  sub- 
jects of  messages  that  pass,  though  I  am 
not  sure  of  this,  for  such  information  as 
I  have  been  able  to  intercept  has  always 
referred  to  approaching  meteorological 
conditions. 

They  come  to  my  ears  only  in  winter, 
after  the  ice  has  reached  a  thickness  of  a 
foot  or  so,  these  promptings  out  of  un- 
known space.  Sometimes  you  need  to  be 
very  near  the  receiver  to  note  them.  It 
is  not  possible  for  a  mile-square,  foot- 
thick  telephone  disk  to  whisper,  yet  often 
it  grumbles  only  a  hoarse  word  or  two 
at  so  deep  a  pitch  that  you  would  hardly 
know  it  was  spoken.  The  lowest  note  on 
a  piano  is  shrill  in  comparison  to  this 
tone,  audible  only  when  the  ear  is  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  ice.  But  there  are  other 
240 


THICK    ICE 

times  when  the  winter  ice  on  the  pond 
whoops  and  roars,  and  bellows  and 
whangs  as  if  all  Bedlam  were  let  loose 
and  were  celebrating  Guy  Fawkes  day. 
A  mile  away,  of  a  still  winter  evening, 
you  may  hear  this  and  be  dismayed,  for 
the  groanings  and  bellowings  are  such  as 
belong  to  no  monsters  of  the  present  day, 
though  they  might  be  echoes  of  antede- 
luvian  battles  corked  within  the  earth 
for  ages  and  now  for  the  first  time  let 
loose. 

It  is  all  very  simple,  of  course,  says 
my  friend  the  scientist.  It  is  caused 
by  vibrations  due  to  the  expanding  or 
contracting  of  the  ice,  or  the  expanding 
or  contracting  of  a  portion  of  it  causing 
big  cracks  to  run  hither  and  thither.  It 
means  simply  that  a  change  in  tempera- 
ture is  going  on. 

But  does  it?  Or  if  so,  is  that  all  it 
241 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

means?  I  crossed  the  pond  not  long  ago 
of  a  beautiful  springlike  morning,  after 
the  sun  had  been  up  for  two  hours  or 
more.  There  was  then  no  voice  in  the 
receiver  other  than  the  gentle  thrumming 
caused  by  the  chopping  of  the  fishermen, 
making  holes  wherein  to  set  pickerel 
traps,  nor  was  there  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 
An  hour  later  the  soft  haze  of  a  coming 
warm  gale  spread  over  the  horizon  to 
the  southward,  and  as  if  at  the  touch  of 
a  key  the  pond  began  to  speak  a  word  now 
and  then  that  rapidly  changed  to  full 
conversation.  From  the  near  hilltop 
where  I  stood  it  was  as  if  I  had  cut  in 
on  a  telephone  line  where  two  giants  were 
eagerly  talking  under  conditions  that 
made  the  hearing  a  difficult  matter.  There 
was  question  and  answer,  query  and  in- 
terruption and  repetition  and  change  of 
tone  from  a  low  voice  to  a  shout. 
242 


THICK    ICE 

It  was  humorously  like  a  fellow  towns- 
man having  trouble  with  Central  so  far 
as  inflection  went,  but  there  was  a  quality 
in  the  tone  which  barred  the  human. 
You  had  but  to  listen  with  closed  eyes 
to  know  that  here  spoke  the  primal  forces 
of  nature.  You  may  hear  that  same 
quality  in  the  voice  of  a  gale  at  sea.  I 
don't  mean  the  shrilling  of  the  wind  in 
the  rigging,  or  the  cry  of  the  waters, 
even,  but  that  burbling  undertone  of  the 
upper  air  currents,  growling  and  shouting 
at  one  another  as  they  roar  by  far  over- 
head. An  Arabian  might  say  these  are 
the  voices  of  Afrites,  journeying  through 
the  air  to  the  kingdom  of  Ethiopia.  So 
even  in  the  bright  sun  of  that  springlike 
morning  these  solemn  voices  of  the  winter 
ice  seemed  like  echoes  of  messages  super- 
human, passing  from  deep  to  deep. 

At  the  time  I  laid  the  cause  to  the 
243 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

changes  in  temperature  produced  by  the 
warmth  of  the  morning  sun  on  the  thick 
ice.  Yet  the  uproar  began  after  the  sun 
had  been  shining  for  an  hour  or  two,  and 
it  ceased  within  a  half-hour.  That  night 
came  the  south  blow  and  a  warm  storm. 

In  the  whirligig  of  our  New  England 
winter  weather  the  soft  rain  and  strong 
south  wind  passed.  Then  the  wind  blew 
strong  from  the  northwest  and  fair  skies 
and  low  temperature  prevailed  for  some 
days,  welding  the  erstwhile  softened  ice 
into  an  elastic  surface  as  resonant  as  tem- 
pered steel.  Then  came  a  still  warm  day 
in  which  we  had  the  same  increase  of  tem- 
perature under  springlike  skies  as  on  that 
previous  day.  Yet  the  pond  never  uttered 
a  word  —  audible  to  my  listening  human 
ears.  Here  were  the  conditions  like  those 
of  the  other  message  period,  yet  not  a 
word  was  said.  Even  the  soft  haze  which 
244 


THICK    ICE 

presaged  another  south  blow  filled  the 
sky,  so  apparently  nothing  was  wanted 
but  the  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the  line. 
It  was  along  in  the  evening  that  I  heard 
the  first  call,  followed  rapidly  by  a  great 
uproar,  so  that  people  heard  it  in  their 
houses  half  a  mile  or  more  away.  Imme- 
diately I  looked  up  the  thermometer.  The 
temperature  had  not  changed  a  degree 
for  hours.  Yet  here  were  the  primal 
forces  telephoning  back  and  forth  to  one 
another  and  fairly  making  the  welkin  ring 
with  their  hubbub.  Surely  wires  were 
crossed  somewhere  on  the  ether  waves, 
or  else  the  tempers  of  the  primal  forces 
themselves  were  out  of  sorts. 

I  seemed  to  hear  familiar  words  in 
their  roarings,  admonitions  to  get  farther 
away  from  the  transmitter,  requests  for 
strangers  to  get  ofif  the  line  and  other 
little  courtesies  that  pass  current  in  the 
245 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

telephone  booth;  and  so  for  a  half-hour 
they  kept  it  up.  It  was  all  very  ghostly 
and  disquieting  and  savoring  of  the  su- 
perhuman to  listen  to  it  in  the  night  and 
wonder  what  it  was  all  about.  At  last 
one  or  the  other  giant  hung  up  the  re- 
ceiver with  a  tremendous  bang,  and  noth- 
ing more  was  to  be  heard  but  the  mutter- 
ings  of  the  other,  grumbling  about  it  in 
notes  low  and  tremendously  deep. 

Before  morning  the  wind  was  blowing 
a  wild  gale  from  the  south,  rain  was 
pouring  in  torrents  and  we  were  evidently 
on  the  outer  edge  of  a  winter  hurricane 
that  had  been  well  up  the  coast,  perhaps 
as  far  as  Nantucket,  when  the  pond  began 
to  talk  about  it.  No;  I  do  not  think 
changes  in  temperature  have  much  to  do 
with  it.  My  explanation  for  the  scientist 
is  that  these  noises  begin  with  a  drop  in 
the  atmospheric  pressure,  a  region  of  low 
246 


THICK   ICE 

barometer  moving  up  in  advance  of  the 
storm.  Taking  the  pressure  quite  sud- 
denly off  the  ice  would  start  all  the  air 
imprisoned  in  solution  beneath  it  to  push- 
ing upward  for  a  chance  to  get  away. 
No  wonder  it  groans  and  whoops  with  all 
that  wind  in  its  wame. 

But  privately  I  am  not  so  sure.  We 
have  so  many  sure-thing  theories,  and  so 
much  definite  knowledge  to-day  that  to- 
morrow is  all  discredited  and  cast  aside 
leaving  us  groping  for  another  theory, 
that  it  is  just  as  easy  to  believe  myself 
eavesdropping  at  telephone  talk  between 
giants.  That  particular  night  it  sounded 
to  me  like  Hercules  on  his  way  up  from 
Hades  with  Cerberus  under  his  arm  and 
a  bit  over-anxious  lest  the  deities  fail  to 
have  the  dog  pound  ready  for  him  on 
arrival  in  the  upper  regions  —  but  of 
course  that 's  pagan  myth.  Anyway  it 
247 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

was  a  great  uproar.  I  fancy  winter  ice 
makes  the  same  outcry  on  other  ponds, 
though  I  never  happened  to  hear  it  any- 
where else. 

To-day  the  ice  was  quiet  enough  on  my 
side  of  the  pond,  though  you  could  see 
where  it  had  been  at  work.  With  the 
west  wind  as  team  mate  it  was  dredging 
and  grading  over  on  the  east  shore.  This 
is  the  every-day  winter  work  of  thick  ice. 
It  picks  up  big  rocks  on  the  beach  and 
carries  them  off  into  deep  water  or  moves 
them  up  or  down  the  shore  as  it  sees  fit. 
But  always  it  pushes  back  the  sand  and 
gravel  and  stones  on  low  shores  and 
steadily  builds  them  up  till  you  find  wide 
shallow  ridges  between  the  water's  edge 
and  the  slope  of  the  land  farther  ashore. 
My  pond  is  very  young,  scarcely  three- 
quarters  of  a  century  old,  yet  it  shows 
marked  evidence  of  this  work  all  along 
248 


THICK    ICE 

shore.  When  ice  is  thick  and  the  wind 
strong,  especially  toward  spring  when 
there  is  apt  to  be  free  water  along  the 
edge,  you  may  stand  by  and  see  the 
dredging  effect  at  work,  see  the  low,  long 
mound  of  gravel  or  sand  slide  backward 
up  the  beach  while  the  edge  of  the  floe 
crumples  and  grinds  and  crumbles,  but 
still  moves  irresistibly  to  its  work. 

Over  at  Ponkapoag  Pond,  which  is  per- 
haps a  hundred  thousand  years  older,  the 
effect  of  this  pushing  ice  through  the  ages, 
working  at  various  levels,  has  been  to 
produce  mounds  and  dikes  almost  beyond 
belief.  Moreover,  these  are  placed  in 
such  situations  that  it  is  plain  to  see  that 
the  water  was  for  the  greater  part  of  that 
long  time  some  feet  higher  than  now.  In 
my  first  acquaintance  with  these  ridges  I 
thought  them  dikes  raised  by  modern 
men,  early  farmers,  perhaps,  who  thus 
249 


WILDWOOD    WAYS 

for  some  occult  reason  banked  the  pond  as 
they  surrounded  their  fields  with  the  stone 
fences  which  last  still.  No  man  of  to- 
day, however  ardent  a  farmer,  builds 
these  great  barriers  between  field  and 
field.  Yet  even  with  the  stone  walls  be- 
fore the  eye  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  men 
built  dykes  along  the  pond  shore  that 
averaged  a  hundred  feet  across  and  were 
in  some  places  much  more.  A  ten-foot 
bank  would  do,  and  it  was  hard  to  believe 
that  so  much  labor  would  be  willingly 
wasted.  Yet  along  the  Ponkapoag  Pond 
shore  in  one  place  is  a  barrier  many  feet 
high  and  broad  built,  not  of  sand,  but  of 
the  rough  slate  rock  of  the  region,  thrown 
together  loosely  in  huge  rough  blocks  and 
tamped  with  earth.  This  is  so  much  big- 
ger than  any  of  the  field-enclosing  stone 
walls  that  it  puts  the  modern  farmer 
quite  out  of  the  question,  and  on  finding 
250 


THICK    ICE 

it  I  had  pleasant  dreams  of  a  prehistoric 
race  of  mound-builders  who  might  have 
preceded  the  Indians  in  their  occupation 
of  the  land  and  have  built  these  pond 
embankments  for  purposes  of  their 
own. 

Again  my  scientific  friend  disapproves 
my  dream  theory  in  well-chosen  argu- 
ment that  is  very  convincing  —  to  him. 
Nevertheless  I  go  my  way  with  mind 
equally  divided,  —  between  theories  as  to 
prehistoric  men-mound-builders  and  the 
probabilities  of  the  work  having  been 
done  by  that  great  beaver  which,  accord- 
ing to  the  Algonquin  legend,  made  the 
world  out  of  mud  brought  up  from  the 
bottom  of  a  lake. 

Mind  you,  I  am  quite  convinced  that 

it  is  the  ice  wrhich  is  doing  this  on  the 

Reservoir    shore,    but    Ponkapoag  —  that 

is  far  enough  away  to  be  in  the  land  of 

251 


WILD  WOOD    WAYS 

legend  and  all  sorts  of  wonderful  things 
may  have  happened  on  its  borders. 

Wrhatever  its  work,  the  ice  for  this 
winter  has  nearly  completed  it.  In  early 
December  its  crystalline  structure  was 
that  of  ferns,  laid  flat  and  interwoven, 
making  it  strong  and  elastic.  All  sem- 
blance of  these  has  vanished,  and  there 
remains  but  a  loosely  adhering  structure 
built  like  the  Giant's  Causeway  in  the 
north  of  Ireland  of  vertical  irregular 
columns  jammed  together  side  by  side. 
Moisture  is  all  between  these,  and  if  the 
temperature  is  below  freezing  cements 
them  firmly  together,  and  it  is  safe  to 
walk  on  the  surface.  The  ice  is  almost  a 
foot  thick  still,  but  let  a  warm  spring  sun 
in  on  it,  and  this  cement  softens,  and 
what  seems  a  firm  foundation  crumbles 
and  fails  beneath  your  foot.  All  along 
the  edges  to-day  the  process  of  disinte- 
252 


THICK   ICE 

gration  was  going  on,  and  you  could 
hear  the  little  seeping  swan  song  of  these 
ice  columns  as  they  slid  apart  and  lay 
flat,  making  mush  ice  in  the  open  water 
where  they  soon  dissolved  and  disap- 
peared. Thus  the  ice  waits  the  mandate 
of  the  spring.  Some  day,  soon,  it  will 
fall  apart  as  if  at  a  word,  and  vanish,  and 
by  that  token  we  shall  know  that  the 
winter  has  really  gone,  and  we  shall  go 
about  in  a  pleasant  glow,  listening  for 
the  first  voice  of  the  spring  frogs. 


253 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Actias  luna,  14 

Afrite,  243 

Algonquin,  251 

Amina,  10 

Apple  tree,  no,  116,  132 

Arbor  vitae,  210,  211 

Arctic  barrens,  4 

Arethusa,  155,  201 

Asplenium  trichomanes,  84 


B 


Bahamas,  70 
Barnacle,  165 
Beaver,  231 
Bedlam,  242 
Bee,  honey,  36 
Beech,  98,  101,  119,  120 
Bermudas,  90 
Betula  alba,  195 

lutea,  195 

Birch,  8,  10,  13,  71,  103,  112, 

118, 135, 139, 149,  188, 

210 
Birch,  yellow,  194,  196,  197 

white,  197 

Blackberry,  17 
Blueberry,  34,  101 
Bluebird,  109,  no,  117 


Blue  Hill,  89,  95,  98,  101, 102, 

105,  217 
Bog-hobble,  201 
Bream,  239 
Buttercup,  127 
Buttonball,  101 


Calamus,  228 

Calopogon,  200 

Callosamia  promethia,  14 

Camelot,  174 

Carolinas,  92 

Cassandra,  204,  205 

Cat,  145,  189 

Cat-o- nine-tails,  126 

Cedar,    113,    139,    140,    186, 

194 
red,  91,  92,  94,  201,  202, 

2IO 

—  white,    205,    207,    209, 

211 

Cerberus,  247 

Cherry,  wild,  177 

Chestnut,  93,  96,  97,  98,  99, 

101,  103,  118,  145 
Chickadee,  7,  117,  120,  121 
Chicken,  114 
Chickweed,  69 
Chipmunk,  181,  183 


257 


INDEX 


Cranberry,  mountain,  95 
Crow,  no,  in,  112,  117,  143, 
144,  145,  183,  185 


Dandelion,  69 
Deer,  143 

Demoiselle  flies,  84 
Dragon  fly,  84 
Duck,  wild,  55 


Eliot  memorial  bridge,  95 
Ethiopia,  243 
Ettrick  Shepherd,  26 


Fern,  51,  52,  70,  104 

Christmas,  77,  78,  84 

—  cinnamon,  73,  81 
crested  shield-,  80 

—  evergreen  wood-,  97,  104 
flowering,  75 

hay-scented,  82 

—  interrupted,  73 
-  lady,  83 

maidenhair  spleenwort, 

84 

ostrich,  71,  74,  81 

polypody,  82,  83,  84,  85, 

97,  104,  105 


Fern,  royal,  76 
seed,  176 

—  sensitive,  75 

spinulose  wood-,  79 

Flag,  blue,  127 
Flicker,  115,  116,  117 
Fly,  caddice,  163 

-  house,  30,  31,  32,  33 
FOX,  33,  143,  145 
Frog,  142 


Galahad,  174 

Gareth,  199 

Gerardia,  93 

Giant's  Causeway,  252 

Goldenrod,  6,  n,  13,  19,  93, 

127 

Goldfinch,  7,  157 
Goldthread,  207 
Goose,  wild,  155 
Gosnold,  Bartholomew,  92 
Grass,  purple  wood,  95 
Grasshopper,  114 
Greenbriar,  100 
Greenland,  218 
Grouse,  ruffed,  144,  160,  177 
Gulliver,  143 
Guy  Fawkes,  241 

H 

Hancock  Hill,  100,  101,  102, 

103,  105 
Hawk,  145 


258 


INDEX 


Hawk,  chicken,  114 

sharp-shinned,  113,  115 

Hemlock,  195 

Hepatica,  69 

Hercules,  247 

Hickory,   n,   14,  91,  92,  93, 

94,  95 
Hornet,  white-faced,  25,  27, 

35,  38 

Hough  ton's  pond,  96,  102 
Hudson's  Bay,  218 
Hylas,  142,  148 


Idylls  of  the  King,  199 
Indian,  251 


Juni penis  virginiana,  219 


Kant,  Immanuel,  48 


Labrador,  3,  13,  93,  218 
Ladies'  delights,  68 
Lemnas,  158 


Lilliputians,  143 

Lily,  yellow  pond-,  227 

Limpet,  165 

Loon,  57,  58,  59,  60,  62,  63 

Louisiana,  3 

Lynette,  199 


M 

Maple,   13,   71,  93,  95,   101, 

139,  157,  160 

Mink,  146,  153,  160,  162,  232 
Moth,  luna,  15 

spice-bush  silk,  14 

Mouse,  114,  147 

—  deer,  180 

-  field,  133,  148 

—  meadow,  144 
Muddy  Pond,  200 
Mullet,  239 

Muskrat,  2,  18,  21,  217,  220, 
224,  226,  228,  229,  230 

Mussascus,  219,  221,  222, 
223,  225,  229,  231 

Mussel,  fresh- water,  228 


N 

Nantucket,  246 
Nebular  hypothesis,  47 
Nephrodium  spinulosum,  81 
Nesaea  verticillata,  201 
Newfoundland,  218 
Nuthatch,  red-breasted,  120, 
121,  122 


259 


INDEX 


Oak,  13, 14, 17, 120, 126, 134, 
142,  148 

black,  140 

red,  95,  118,  131,  140 

scrub,  90,  131,  177 

white,  5,  93,  95,  118 

Old  Guard,  218 
Orinoco,  193 
Osmunda  regalis,  74 
Owl,  145 


Palm,  51,  52 

Partridge,  143,  178 

Partridge  berry,  76,  126,  207 

Perch,  239 

Pickerel  weed,  217 

Pigeon,  1 1 6,  117 

Pine,  13,  16,  50,  118,  125,  135, 

136, 137, 139, 149,  156, 

173,  208 
Pipsissewa,  125 
Pitcher  plant,  200,  204 
Pleiades,  49 
Plesiosaurus,  52 
Polypody,  82,  83,  84,  85,  97, 

104,  105 
Polystichum  acrostichoides, 

78 
Ponkopoag  pond,  3,  217,  233, 

249,  250,  251 
Pyrola,  76,  126 


Rabbit,  131,  133,  134,  143 
Ranunculus    bulbosus,    127, 
128 

re  pens,  127 

Rat,  brown,  148 
Reservoir  Pond,  251 
Rose,  wild,  211 


Samia  cecropia,  14 
Scorpion,  28,  29 
Seal,  fur,  222 
Skunk,  6,  134,  145 
Smilax,  wild,  15 
Smith,  Capt.  John,  219 
Snail,  161 
Snow,  black,  211 
Snowbird,  8 
Sparrow,  8 

song,  112,  113,  114,  115, 

'    117 

swamp,  187 

tree,  185 

Sphagnum,  200,  204,  205 
Spider,  land,  239 
Squirrel,  121,  133,  143 

gray,  181 

Stephanotis,  193 
Stockton,  122 

Struthiopteris  germanica,  72 
Sweet  flag,  17,  228 


260 


INDEX 


Tamias  striatus,  182 

Telia  polyphemus,  14 

Teneriffe,  4 

Tennyson,  200 

Toad,  161 

Trout,    146,    161,    162,    163; 

164,  1 66 
Turkey,  179 
Turtle,  161 
Turner,  Obadiah,  27 


Ulysses,  55 


Venezuela,  193 

Vespa  maculata,  26,  35 

Violet,  wood.  13 


W 

Wasp,  common,  26 

yellow  jacket,  26 

Water-strider,  239 
Watercress,  163 
Waterloo,  218 
Weasel,  145,  162,  232 
Willow,  16 
Witch-hazel,  101 
Woodchuck,  5,  6,  134 
Woodpecker,  downy,  122 
Wordsworth,  75 


261 


